The Owl
by S. Faith
Summary: Miles to go before he sleeps. Takes place before and during Mad About the Boy.
1. Chapter 1

**The Owl**

By S. Faith, © 2014

Words: 24,800 in 4 chapters  
><span>Rating<span>: T / PG-13  
><span>Summary<span>: …and miles to go before he sleeps.  
><span>Disclaimer<span>: Isn't mine.

Notes: Takes place before and during the events of _Mad About the Boy_. You might want to have some tissues handy.

Yes, it's been a while: some ups (meeting HF); some downs (death of my father). Taken a bit to get back into the swing of it. Hope you all like it.

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><p><em>How did you bring your heart to me and how did I bring my heart to you? Whenever we lay down together you always told me, "Dear, do other people cherish and love each other like we do? Are they really like us?" How could you leave all that behind and go ahead of me?... You are just in another place, and not in such a deep grief as I am. There is no limit and end to my sorrows that I write roughly.…<em>

_ —From a letter to Eung-Tae Lee by his widow, 1 June 1586_

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><p><strong>Chapter 1<strong>

_2008_

He had no memory of how he got to London, and it's not like it would have been a short trip by any stretch. Still, he was here now, though felt quite oddly discombobulated, lightheaded, disorientated.

He just wanted to see his family again.

He walked the streets—never occurred to hire a taxi, the walking felt good and strangely not tiring—until he came upon his home. His heart welled with joy, and as he came up the steps the door opened.

_So long since I've seen her_, he thought. _Or them—_

Except it wasn't her. It was a man, and it wasn't anyone he knew. And it was then that the oddest thing occurred: the man was suddenly behind him, and he had no recollection of being passed by.

He moved forward, towards then inside the house, calling her name, but got no reply. He stopped short, however, when he realised that everything was different. The furniture. The drapery. Even the colour of the walls.

What the bloody hell was going on?

He turned to call again, when he heard a thundering come down the stairs. He rushed back to the stairs, hope in his heart.

It was still not her. It was a teenaged girl, who hastily opened then went through the front door calling, "Daddy! Daddy! Don't forget—"

He didn't really hear the rest of it, for his gaze landed on a framed photograph: a happy looking couple, one of which was the man he'd just passed, with a woman who was clearly that man's wife, and clearly taken on their wedding day. He furrowed his brow. Who were these people and why were they in his house?

On the front porch again, still pondering what had just happened, he saw a figure on the other side the low iron gate that surrounded the lot. Who it was did not shock him, as she'd been to the house many times before; it was her expression of utter devastation that took him aback.

He called, "Sharon?" She didn't respond, merely turned to a man standing beside her, one whom he did not recognise—which made him think, briefly, of the other man he hadn't recognised; where did he go? Where did the girl go? Why was the sky suddenly so like twilight?—and said something quietly to him.

"This is where they used to live."

"It's beautiful," he replied. American. Not New York, at least not Manhattan.

"Was just too much for her afterwards," Sharon said, pushing her blonde hair from her face. "All of it was… too much."

"I understand." The man opened a car door for her. "Come on, or we'll be late."

"Sorry, sorry. I just had to stop by, for old times' sake." She climbed in.

He called her name once more, and then—

Suddenly he was in the car; he had no recollection of getting from there to here. Had they had a conversation? Why were they still so sombre-looking?

The car stopped. He didn't know to whose house they were going, but they were close to Primrose Hill. "It's the first time I've been back in a while," she said, then took in a deep breath. "First time I've seen her since—well. This is going to be hard."

The man—_ah, must be her husband_; he recalled she'd married—placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "No time like the present."

She nodded. "Right. Here goes."

The three of them marched to the door. She knocked. An interminable pause before the door swung open, and—

There she was, a balm for his spirit. Though he could barely find his voice, he said her name:

"Bridget."

Bridget didn't react, and instead fell headlong into Sharon's arms, bursting into tears and sobbing.

"I'm so sorry," said Sharon. "I wish Lance and I could have come sooner—"

_Lance… Lance… oh yes._ He realised that he'd actually known the name, but had forgotten. Lance looked like he didn't quite know what to do. He was feeling a bit of a loss himself, felt invisible, like he wasn't even there.

"Bridget!" he said again, with more force.

"I haven't stopped thinking about you," Sharon continued, as if he hadn't even spoken. What in blazes was going on?

"I know," came the muffled reply before Bridget raised her head; her red, tear-swollen eyes, her pallor, her mussed hair. "I knew you'd come as soon as you could. If not for the children…" She trailed off, looking unfocused, though she was staring directly at him.

"How have you been holding up?"

"If not for the children…" Bridget said again. "If only…"

"Now, stop that," Sharon scolded gently.

"I don't know if I can be strong enough," she said, her voice cracking.

"Of course you can," said Sharon. "He would want you to."

"I'm so sorry for your loss." Lance spoke up at last, in a rush, almost like he might lose his nerve, which was odd since Lance (he remembered suddenly) was a fearless dot-com entrepreneur. "I can't imagine how difficult it's been for you since Mark's death."

He was about to open his mouth, insist angrily that he was standing right there and wonder what on earth they were talking of…

But he realised in that moment that he was beside a window; that the sky outside had darkened considerably; that he could see Lance, Sharon and Bridget all mirrored in the darkened pane, but…

He wasn't there.

"No," Mark said out loud. "_No_."

It was not possible.

…

Before arriving in London, the last thing Mark could recall with clarity was riding in a vehicle; rough terrain, desolate landscape, and then a sudden nothingness. His thoughts spun around. How long had it been? When had he been in the vehicle? What time of year was it now?

He blinked, brought himself back to the moment, or at least thought he had; he was outdoors again with no memory of moving, outside of the house, and it was apparently midday.

_My children_, he thought. _Want to see my children._ Children, he realised, he would never get to hold again. A wife he would never—but was she still his wife? "'Til death do you part" was the vow. What now?

The door opened, and as if reading his mind Bridget came out of the house, bundled for winter weather. Snow. He realised that it had seemed to turn instantly to winter, that the trees were spindly and barren, and a light dusting of snow covered the eaves and sills.

In her arms was the baby. Mabel. His darling girl, whom he'd left when she was only three months old. And tiny, bundled in coat, hat, scarf and mitten, was William—Billy—holding on to a fold in Bridget's coat, brief turn to lock the door, as they came down the front steps and to the car.

_I'll always come back to you_ had been his promise whenever he'd gone away for work, but he hadn't kept that promise, had he? Why had he thought himself immortal? Why hadn't he stayed home, in the protective nest with his family? _I am a fool,_ he thought, then corrected himself: _I _was_._

Riding along the highway now, he was there in the car, looking over Mabel at an impossible angle for a bodily form. A sack of festive gifts on the front seat suggested to him it was Christmas time. He thought about her age when he'd left, so she must have been nine months of age now. Had it been six months? Mabel looked upwards, happy and smiling, making sweet burbling sounds that filled him to bursting with the ache of happiness. His little girl. She would never know him.

And his son, looking ever more like his father had as a boy, with dark hair and eyes, keeping quiet as the car chugged along. Not even aged three.

"Thank you," said Bridget suddenly from behind the wheel; it startled him for a moment, made him think she was addressing him, "for not being screaming nightmares on the drive. Whatever's keeping you occupied, I'm glad for it."

He realised that both of the children were looking where he was and it surprised him so much that he was suddenly no longer in the car, but—

At his parents house; oh, they seemed to have aged years since he had seen them last, and again his heart ached. There were Bridget and the children, out of their outerwear, his mother holding Mabel, cooing at her with glossy eyes, and his father chatting amiably with Billy.

"Are we ready for dinner, then?" said his mother Elaine, looking to Bridget.

"Yes!" said Billy enthusiastically. "Cwismas puddin'?"

This made them all chuckle, and Mark smiled too. His mother's son.

"When will you be going to see Pam?" Elaine asked Bridget. All around the table now, they were, and Mark observed from behind them, moving to see each of their faces; Billy in the high chair, Mabel dozing in her seat, Bridget cutting Billy's food for him.

"In the morning," she said. "She and Una have a thing going on in her… at St Oswald's House."

Elaine nodded. "I'm glad Una went there, too. Must have been so hard to lose Geoffrey so soon after Pam lost Colin…"

In a moment Mark realised the extent of the heartache Bridget must have felt, losing her father, then her husband; he recalled that Colin had only really got to hold Billy once…

"She's always so happy to see the children," said Bridget, in what Mark knew to be forced brightness, as she handed Billy his plate. "And they're happy to see her."

"Yes, yes, who'd like some more eggnog?" His father, never one for much emotion, said this clearly to steer the conversation away from such serious subjects.

"Has it got rum in it?" Bridget asked glumly.

"It can, if you like," said Elaine. "You're not driving tonight."

Bridget smiled wanly. "I'd love to, but better not. Still breastfeeding."

His poor darling Bridget; so pale and drawn, dark smudges under her eyes, blonde hair listless, drawn into a low, utilitarian ponytail. She looked exhausted to the bone, and worst of all, so very sad. First Christmas without him. The children were too young to really understand. Bridget did, all too well. He was glad she was there with family.

"Understood," Elaine said with a nod, then added confidentially, "even if I do think a little nip wouldn't hurt anyone."

She pursed her lips. "Maybe a tiny nip."

"Cwismas?" asked Billy as Elaine put a little splash of rum into Bridget's cup. "Pwesents and Santa come see me?"

Everyone froze; Mark instantly knew why, thinking of the previous Christmas, where he'd donned the suit and beard for his boy, and played up Father Christmas to the delight of the assembled. Bridget cleared her throat, spoke in a quiet voice. "No Santa this year, Billy. Santa is very busy and can't always stop to visit, but he'll always leave something." She unsteadily picked up the eggnog and took a long draw, then offered a little smile to him. "And it's 'Ch_r_istmas'. 'P_r_esents'. Rrrr."

Billy pouted. "Is what I said, Mummy."

To his delight, Bridget smiled then leaned to kiss his head. "I love you," she said to him, tears falling freely from her eyes. "God, do I love you."

And then it was dark, she was tucked under the sheets in the double bed in the guest room, and beside her was Billy; Mabel slept in a small crib just beside them. Billy, perhaps excited with Christmas anticipation, was restless and woke, looking around as if he'd forgotten where he was.

"Mummy?" he asked quietly.

"Right here, love," she murmured sleepily, then draped her arm across him as if it were a mama bird's protective wing. "Go back to sleep."

Billy, however, gazed upwards to where Mark was standing, furrowing his little brow. "Dada?"

"Oh, Billy." Bridget opened her eyes, drew Billy even closer to her. "Dada's always with you, love," she said in a thick voice. "Always. Like the moon."

As Billy fell back to sleep, he could see her, hear her crying softly in the darkness. He knew he couldn't touch her, but he moved close to her anyway. He imagined his arms around her, comforting her; she did quieten, and he liked to think it had been because of him.

…

_2009_

Mark learned quickly that time was meaningless in his state. Sure, it still flowed in a linear, forward manner, but there were jumps, stutters, periods that he missed completely. He didn't understand why this happened, but he did his best to try to learn how to control them. Whether he succeeded or not was another story altogether.

If he was going to remain with them, even as a… Ghost? Spirit?... he wanted to be with them as much as he could. He wondered too if there was a goal, wondered too what would happen once he reached it. He didn't want to think about leaving her. Leaving them.

He'd first realised the stuttering nature of his existence when he moved from the dark grey world of Christmas time to a verdant, blooming spring; Mabel's first birthday. Her hair was longer, nearly white-blonde, and put up into two little pigtails. Her eyes were blue and shining; her bubbly laugh, irresistible.

While Bridget looked a bit cheerier, he could still see the remnants of her sorrow in the dark circles beneath, the dullness in the colour of her eyes. Her hair was longer than he'd ever seen it, again drawn back at the nape of her neck; her face was a bit fuller, her clothes loose and sloppy.

Billy, party hat donned, grinned and, as Bridget leaned to light the candles, began singing the birthday song to his sister. Rather than telling him to wait, Bridget joined in, and as they sang out of tune and out of synch, a flash of her old self shone through. Mark began singing too, though he was choking up as much as he could in his state.

When he realised other voices had also joined in was when he realised his parents were there, as were Pam and Una, and an array of familiar friendly faces: Jude, Tom, Magda, Jeremy… even that friend of Bridget's from the television studio, Talitha, standing off to the side smoking a cigarette. All of them sang with smiles and with teary, glossy eyes.

Mabel beamed a smile then, at Bridget's coaching, blew out the candle. A roaring cheer went up in the room. Mabel, thrilled that she'd gotten such a response, began laughing maniacally and clapping her hands.

"Such a big girl you are, Mabel," said Bridget, reaching to kiss her on the head. "Well done, you."

"Cake!" shouted Mabel.

This caused all and sundry to begin to chuckle. _Like mother, like daughter_, Mark thought, his heart shattering into a million pieces.

Dammit.

Mabel was now nodding off in her chair, chocolate cake crumbs and smears of icing in her hair, on her face, on her front, her pigtails in disarray. Pam attempted to clean her off, then lifted her, murmured soft words to her as Mabel plopped her thumb into her mouth and made whiny sounds clearly about not wanting to go to bed. It was full dark now. Mark cursed under his breath; how could he learn to hold on to the present?

"Glad you could come," said Bridget to Elaine and Malcolm. "You don't mind taking back my mum and Una to St Oswald's, do you?"

"Of course not," said Elaine, patting Bridget's shoulder. "It's practically on the way home."

Bridget smiled; she and Mark knew it wasn't completely true. "I really appreciate it," Bridget said. "I don't really have guest space in this house, not like…" She trailed off, her eyes welling again. "Well. You know."

Elaine nodded. "Thanks for having us down. Hope to see you soon."

The two women then said their goodbyes with an embrace, and it took every ounce of reserve for Mark to keep himself focused on the moment. _I don't know what causes these time jumps, but… I want to see the guests leave_, Mark thought. _I want to see Bridget and the children, want to see her put them to bed, want to see how she is when no one else is around._

He wanted to be alone with her again. Even if he never really could be.

Mabel was easy to put down for the night in the crib in the room she shared with her brother, who occupied the lower bed of bunk beds. Mabel was so wiped out from her exciting day that she only needed to be put into a fresh nappy and pyjamas, then laid gently into her little crib and she was out like a light. A year old already; Mark could so vividly remember her birth last March, holding her, small and warm against his chest, taking in the sweet smell of her newborn-ness. Billy was a bit more wound up from the sugar in the cake and ice cream, but what she did to calm the boy surprised Mark:

She recited, from memory, the story that Mark himself had written for the Baby Princess, all thoughts resting for the night like baby birds and rabbits into their homes…. It was practically word for word as he had made it up.

When she finished, Billy seemed fast asleep; she drew the duvet up to cover his tiny shoulders and kissed him on the temple.

"Mummy?" he asked sleepily.

"What, darling," she said.

"Will you tell us the story, always and every night?"

"Of course I will."

"Oh good," Billy said, then yawned. "You're right, you know," he murmured. "Dada _is_ always with us."

At this she blinked back tears, sniffed, and kissed him again. "As long as I have you, I have him," she said, ruffling his hair in a familiar manner that was intended to cheer herself, but she looked no different. No happier.

"Yup," Billy said, then closed his eyes, no longer able to fight sleep.

She took in a long breath, stood, then walked out of the room, closed the door most of the way, then leaned against the wall and brought her hands to her face, tears sliding over the fingers pressed up to her cheeks, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs. He swore he could read her mind—_Is it ever going to stop hurting this much?_—and wanted desperately to be able to console her. If he were actually in a position to offer such real comfort, he realised, she would not need it.

But as suddenly as her outburst had begun, it stopped. She stood up straight, took in another breath, and wiped her face dry. "Okay," she said. "Can't let the darkness get me. Must keep on." She sniffed. "Must keep buggering on."

His sudden laughter would have startled her had she been able to hear him; it was something he had occasionally heard Sharon say, and it was a wonderful flash of the old Bridget, even in her sorrow.

Somehow he moved to be in the master bedroom before she arrived, so he was there to meet her as she came in. She took off her shirt, her trousers, all of her clothes; she let down her hair from the ponytail and shook it over her shoulders. _Beautiful_, he thought, as beautiful as she had ever been to him, and he ached to take her into his arms.

She switched the monitor on and brought it with her as she quickly showered. She cleaned her teeth, combed out her hair, then sighed, slipped into her nightgown, and returned with the monitor back to the bedroom.

She peeled back the duvet and sheets, then got in, closed her eyes, and let out a long, steady breath as she turned to embrace her pillow.

"There, there," he said, imagining he could feel the silky hair beneath his fingers, imagining she could actually hear his soothing words.

Before too long—though it wasn't always easy to tell in his state—she drifted into a peaceful sleep, her breathing as regular as a pendulum. He went to look in on the children, Billy, then Mabel. His family. As best he could, he kissed them goodnight.

…

_2010_

One thing Mark never expected he would've been pleased to see was Daniel Cleaver hovering attentively around his wife. There was no ulterior motive; Daniel was truly concerned for her, and came by regularly to see to her well-being. He also took his duty as godfather very seriously. His intentions were always good, even if his ideas about proper childcare weren't.

Daniel was able to elicit a broader smile than just about anyone else, usually when sharing said child-rearing ideas. "No, Daniel, you may not take Mabel out in the pram to attract women," she'd once said with the closest thing he'd heard to a laugh since his arrival. Or:

"No, Daniel; Billy's too young yet for a football match."

"Not even at the pub?"

"_Especially_ not at the pub."

For all of their years of animosity, Mark was grateful that he and Daniel had had the chance to patch things up after Billy's arrival; they'd had a couple of good years of rekindled friendship, anyway. Once Billy came, Daniel had seemed to give up any designs or any claim on Bridget's romantic affections, and that behaviour had continued once Mark had…

_Gone_, he thought. He had a difficult time of thinking of himself as gone, not when he was still there with her. Even though she had no awareness of his presence.

On this particular night, a strangely festive yet bittersweet atmosphere permeated the air; Daniel was making dinner for Bridget and the children, who were laughing and giggling as they sat at the table, waiting to be served. Billy in a booster chair, Mabel in a high chair, one on either side of their mother.

"Unca Daniel, when can we have the cake?" Billy asked.

"After dinner," said Daniel as he brought their dinner plates over to the table. Spaghetti Bolognese. He smiled. It'd been a favourite of Bridget's for as long as he'd known her—one he had grown to love, too.

"I like cake," said Mabel.

Bridget chuckled, smoothing her wispy blonde hair down. "I know you do."

"Why are we having cake?" Billy asked, his features gone very serious.

"Because it's a special day," Bridget said quietly, though trying to keep her tone light, cheerful, as she lifted her wine glass to sip. "So," she said, pulling herself to her full height, "eat your dinner and then we can dig into that cake. What do you say?"

"Yay!" said both of the children.

Daniel gave Bridget a look best interpreted as sympathetic.

With adult assistance, the children dutifully ate their portions; after all, they desperately wanted the cake and spoke of nothing else. Then Daniel rose, cleared the table, then said, "Okay, all right, I'll get the cake. Billy, you have a special role to play."

"Do I?" the boy asked, brightening further.

"Oh yes," he said with a wink. "Patience. I shall return presently."

"Cake!" said Mabel with a big grin.

Daniel went to the kitchen; Mark knew he could have followed to see exactly what was happening, but he was more interested in Bridget and the children. She seemed to be using them to hold herself together, to distract herself. She wiped their faces clean of imaginary tomato sauce, until she heard footsteps approaching again. He thought he saw tears brimming in her eyes when Daniel returned with the cake.

A lit candle stuck up out of its centre, the flame moving in the breeze as Daniel walked forward to place the cake on the table in front of where Billy sat. It was curiously devoid of chocolate icing. He guessed lemon glaze cake, which made him smile; it had been his very favourite. Bridget had deigned to make it for him every year on his—

"Are we gonna sing?" asked Billy.

Bridget began, "I don't know if—" she began, then said, "I don't think I can bear to hear it."

Daniel reached to take her hand and squeeze it. "Billy, go ahead and make a wish and blow it out."

"Me? But…"

Daniel nodded. "It's okay," he said. "You're the man of the house, aren't you?"

He smiled a little. "Okay." He paused to consider his wish, leaned forward, then blew out the flame.

"Yay!" shrieked Mabel, clapping her hands. "Cake!"

Billy turned to his sister. "You can't ask what I wished for," Billy said to her, unprompted, "or it won't come true."

He watched Bridget cast her gaze to the side, tears welling again. It suddenly became all too clear what this was all about. A lemon glaze cake. A single candle that Billy blew out. Daniel's presence, his support.

They were commemorating Mark's own birthday, in his absence.

"He would have been—" she began.

"Bridget," Daniel interrupted gently. "Don't." He then stood, reached over and cut the cake, then went back for dessert plates on which to serve them. "Let's have this cake and eat it with a smile. Birthdays are happy things, aren't they?" he asked pointedly, glancing to the children in turn. They looked confused. Then to her: "He'd want happy."

She looked to Daniel. "Okay."

Billy nodded, agreeing, "Okay."

"Wanna big peeth!" exclaimed Mabel.

"You will have a Mabel-sized piece," said Bridget.

Daniel chuckled. "Not as big as Mabel, obviously," he said, slicing off a sliver and putting it onto a plastic kiddie plate. "I think this is just your speed, doll."

Mabel grinned maniacally, then dug her plastic spoon into the cake.

Then the kids were gone, their plates with half-eaten cake on them, and at the table was Bridget sipping at her wine glass, then setting it down. She reached over and plucked up a big crumb of cake, ate it, then sighed.

_He's right_, thought Mark. _I'd want happy._

"Have you noticed? Billy had his difficulties with Rs; Mabel seems to have a bit of a lisp."

She glanced up at Daniel's return. "They're sleeping?"

"They're in their respective beds, which is close enough for now." He said beside her. "I could go back and strap them down, if that'd make you feel better." She chuckled. "Seriously, they're tired. They'll be asleep in no time."

"I know," she said. "I just… I worry. They're all I have."

"You have us, Bridge. You have me."

She looked down. "You know what I mean," she said.

Daniel nodded, taking her hand again.

_They're all I have of him._

He then reached for his wine, lifted it up. "To Mark, who was a good man, a fine father, and if he were here right now, he would punch me in the face for holding your hand." She smiled as a tear raced down her cheek. "And would kick my arse for this." Daniel leaned and pecked a kiss on her cheek; Mark instinctively knew that it was not an attempt to come on to her. Mark heard a little laugh escape her, and he smiled too.

"Yes, he would," she said, then raised her glass and touched the rim to his. "To Mark, who I will miss every day of the rest of my life."

"We all will, Bridge."

"Daniel?"

"What?"

She offered a smile again; a small one, but it was there. "I think I'd kind of like it if you called me 'Jones', like you used to."

"I didn't want to…"

_Offend you. Hurt your feelings. Remind you of the days before Mark, or make you think I'm trying to erase him from your past…._ She shook her head. "I know," she said. "And I appreciate your thoughtfulness. But it's okay if you do." She squeezed his hand. "It's like an old friend, that endearment. I just want you to behave normally with me, including calling me what you always have."

"Okay," he said. "If you insist… Jones."

Daniel and Bridget were then at the door; Daniel leaving, giving her a good, long, warm hug. "Take care of yourself," he said gently, "and I'll see you and the kids very soon." He drew back, speaking in a more normal tone. "Maybe I'll, I don't know, take them to the racetrack with me, or something."

She laughed a little and smacked him lightly on the shoulder. "You're a lunatic."

"Yeah, I've been told as much." He drew back, kissed her on the cheek again, and said his goodbyes before departing. She closed the door behind him, threw the locks.

In days past, it would be the time, once all the company was gone, to take a deep breath and settle into bed together to discuss the evening, discuss the day ahead… but now, alone, she simply looked around the house, pulling her lips into a thin line. "Bedtime, I suppose," she said to herself. "Alone."

Not alone, but she didn't know it.

…

_2011_

"Bridget."

"Hmm?"

Closely Mark watched her, as he always had since his arrival, as she intently pulled out little clumps of chocolate chip dough and plunked them down haphazardly and in uneven clumps onto a baking sheet. Tom was there; good old Tom, stalwart friend and licensed clinical psychologist, able to pull double duty, though Mark was frankly gladder for the former.

"Don't punch me or anything, but…."

"What, Tom?" she asked, pausing in her biscuit making.

"I was just wondering if…" He paused. "If you'd given any thought to dating again."

Bridget didn't say anything; Mark felt his fury burn. What a terrible, callous, insensitive thing to—

"I mean, darling," Tom continued gently, "it's been over _three years_ now. I just thought it might be a good time to suggest shedding the weeds. Or at least start thinking about it."

Bridget continued in her silence, though Mark now only felt shock. Three years. Three _years_! It did not seem possible that two and a half years had passed since he'd found his way back to her, yet, as he examined his thoughts, as he looked around his surroundings, he realised with a shock that Billy was beyond toddlerhood, that Mabel was no longer a babe in arms. How had he not noticed?

But he knew, deep down, that he hadn't seen the changes because he hadn't wanted to. He had been content enough in this continued existence, this safe little bubble of comfort, and it was easy enough for time to slide by when time had no noticeable effect on him. Although Mark had been looking at her all along, he realised—now, biscuits baked, suddenly alone, children in bed—that he hadn't truly _seen_ her.

He did now, and the weight of his grief and anguish was crushing; she was sad, lost, utterly despondent and alone. Her days were so routine that he would have had a hard time differentiating one day from another if he had been of the living. In fact, she was barely of the living, herself. She was existing, and only then for the children. But for the barest flicker, she no longer smiled; she no longer sparked with energy; she no longer glowed.

She was a shell of her former self.

She was broken.

_You fool_, he thought, and then looked up to the moon, suddenly noticing he was outside without any memory of moving. He was still on the property, still in the back garden, out amongst the low shrubs, grass, and papery fallen leaves which blew about in a gust. Out of habit, he supposed, he moved to avoid the table on the patio, just as he saw motion out of the corner of his eye—

The odd thing was that there was an actual sensation of being struck, something he hadn't felt since he'd been alive. Not only struck but carried up, carried off, flying up, flying away into the night air, up like a cartoonish ghost (something he had not yet managed to achieve). It was, in its own way, extremely liberating, even in his deep confusion about what was happening. Then the tree, barren of leaves and glowing an otherworldly silver in the moonlight, was there in front of him, and oddly he felt drawn to it, so he aimed for a limb.

_Well_, he thought, suddenly stopped. _That was interesting._

What was more interesting was his feeling of solidness, of weight settling the tree branch ever so slightly down; seeing a darkened window, he looked closer and made out a reflection of the branches. His own reflection, too, he realised, when he moved and part of the reflection did too.

_Very interesting_, he mused. _It would seem I am an owl._

The reflection disappeared as a light came on in the room within. His heart skipped a beat, began to race—here, as an owl, while he had a heart—because it was her. Bridget. As if he hadn't seen her just moments ago, or at least what felt like moments, but how long had it really been? He questioned everything, assumed nothing.

Bridget paced back and forth in the room, crossing the windowpane, and it took a few passes for him to see that she was tenderly holding a child; the white-blonde hair and tiny form spoke of Mabel, and the rolling gait Bridget had adopted told him the poor girl was unable to sleep.

His poor girl, his poor boy. Mabel had not known life with her father at all, but surely felt the acute vacuum created by his loss; Billy, though he'd been small the last time Mark had hugged him… how difficult it must have been for Billy to be without his father.

As she continued to pace he saw Bridget's mouth moving; he suspected she was singing to Mabel, the same pop song she favoured to lull the girl to sleep. He noticed, too, the tears gathering in the corner of Bridget's eyes. Another wave of unhappiness washed over him.

She couldn't go on like this. He knew, even accepted, that it was not possible he could return to her in a way that was meaningful to her, much as he would have wished it, but he couldn't watch her shrivel into someone whom he no longer recognised as the bright, bubbly, funny, witty woman that he loved.

In the blink of an eye he was at ground level again, out of the tree and weightless; he saw the owl silhouetted against the moon, heard its near-silent wings as it shot high up into the sky, watched until he could no longer see it.

With the image of the owl in the silver-grey sky burned forever in his memory, he realised he had not been given such a gift without a reason. It was up to him. Somehow, ensuring Bridget's future happiness seemed to fall to him.


	2. Chapter 2

**The Owl**

By S. Faith, © 2014

Words: 24,800 in 4 chapters  
><span>Rating<span>: T / PG-13  
><span>Summary, Disclaimer, Notes<span>: See Chapter 1.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 2<strong>

_2012_

In the wake of these revelations, Mark worked as best he could to remain in their present with them. He focused on Mabel beginning her nursery school, a school he had himself wanted his children to attend. She was Bridget in miniature, with a wild mop of blonde hair, a dolly called Saliva, and a little bit of a lisp that did not stop her from sharing her definite opinions of the world. Billy was becoming a fine boy, though not as confident in himself as he could have been; he could see himself in his son, and if he was able to see it, he knew Bridget could too. He only hoped the resemblance, both physical and behavioural, did not cause her any pain.

When the trees began to bud again with new life, when the days began to get longer, Mark was proud of the fact that he'd noticed. Bridget's friends continued to visit, and he tried to will them to drag her by the scruff to The Electric, then laughed to think he ever would have insisted on such a thing were he still—

_Well, no matter_, he thought. He noticed with dismay that she rarely went out except to do the school run or to pick up groceries. Despite repeated requests to return to the studio, she was not even going out to work, not that she needed to; he had seen to that. But she had always prided herself on her independence and identity, and even in her career, and that had not even mattered to her anymore. She needed to get out and socialise. She needed to be reminded that she still had a life to live.

Easter, with its coloured eggs, lamb and mint, hot cross buns, came and went, and the Christian celebration of rebirth was shortly followed by a visit by her friends, en masse. Tom. Jude. Magda. Talitha.

Fitting timing.

"We're not having it," said Talitha, stubbing her cigarette out in an empty ashtray. The children were in bed; it was a weeknight, a Thursday, and they had school the next day.

"Keep your voice down," said Bridget in a whispered hiss, "or I'll make you put Mabel back down. And what _are_ you talking about?"

"While we are not unsympathetic," said Magda tactfully, interrupted by Talitha:

"You've got to start living again, Bridget. It's coming up on four years."

"We know how much you loved Mark," said Tom in a conciliatory tone. "But I think he'd be devastated to see you like this."

Bridget looked down. Tears welled in her eyes, then spilled down over her cheeks. Despite the pain this obviously caused her, Mark had never been fonder of Tom than in that moment. "I'll never not love him," she said quietly.

"We know that," said Jude. "Nothing in the world was more obvious than that. But he's… _gone_."

She hiccupped a sob, covered her face with her hands. "I know."

"And you're _not_. Yet except for the children, you might as well be," said Talitha. Bless her, he was growing fond of her, too; a frankness and brashness not unlike Shazzer, a shot of which Bridget needed desperately right now. "This must not be allowed to go on, Bridget. You're a woman with the rest of her life to live."

"But Mark—"

"I doubt Mark would be happy to see you like this."

Bridget looked up to them. "Yeah, fatter than I've ever been in my life," she said with a bit of her usual spirit, her reddened eyes sparkling. Was she? Mark hadn't noticed.

Magda made a dismissive sound. "You're fine, but if it bothers you that much… the point is, you have to _want_ to do it, Bridget," said Magda.

Talitha shook her head. "No," she emphasised. "I'm afraid we're to the point that you're doing it whether you want to or not. We love you too much to let you languish any longer."

Bridget turned her gaze to each of her friends in turn. "Shazzer would—"

"She'd agree," Jude said. Tom nodded. "In fact, she would be doing a Facetime in on our little intervention right now if she wasn't in the middle of whatever she spends her days doing out there in California."

There was a long silence, during which she looked down again. "I don't know if I can do this."

"Bridget, you can do _anything_," said Talitha with an unprecedented softness in her voice. "I've watched you over the last four years. You are a strong woman, whether you care to acknowledge it or not."

Bridget's voice was quiet: "I don't feel very strong."

Jude went over and put her arms around Bridget. "You are, but you've just forgotten," she said gently. Tom embraced her too, as did Magda and Talitha. "We'll help you remember again."

Talitha cracked open a bottle of wine she'd brought, poured them each a small glass and they had a toast to living again; Tom laughed and said how this might have been one of the only interventions at which there was celebratory wine.

But then they were gone, and Bridget sat alone at the table for a bit before putting the rest of the bottle into the refrigerator, then trudging upstairs and into the bedroom. Mark was already there when she arrived—slowly but surely he was mastering the ability to move himself in anticipation of her destination—and with a great sigh, she went to a box in her closet, pulled it out, then drew out an article of clothing.

Mark knew it well, a nightie she had gotten for their second or third wedding anniversary. He had seen her in it many times—had divested her of it many times—and she smiled in a melancholy way. "I'll never get my arse into this thing," she said, though he knew it was an exaggeration, and she did too, because she took off her clothing. It felt strange to watch her undress, like he was some kind of peeping tom, but he felt that way every time he'd done it and yet he still couldn't pull his eyes away, revelling in memories of touching her, holding her, kissing her…

The nightie was snugger than it had been, but she still looked gorgeous in it. She sighed and pulled at the taut fabric between her breasts, then let go, yet smiled a little. He suspected she was thinking of when, during her pregnancies, he had complimented the way her breasts had blossomed, and had done so in a way that left no doubt to his sincerity.

"Oh, Mark," she said with a little sob, then pulled her lips tight as if holding back more tears. But then she froze, and Mark realised why because he heard it too.

"Mummeeeeeeee…"

In a flash she was in the children's bedroom; Mark beat her there. Mabel, now old enough to occupy the lower bunk, was in clear distress and sat straight up, opening her mouth, then letting loose a stream of vomit he could hardly believe could come from a four-year old.

"Oh no, oh _no_," said Bridget, "my poor Mabel." She scooped the child up and—it was only then he saw the sheets were soiled with more than vomit—brought her to the bathroom and set her down before stripping her of her soiled pyjamas. She then lifted Mabel into the bathtub, turned on the tap, and quickly washed her down. As she turned off the tap, she lifted Mabel onto the rug, wrapped her in a big fluffy towel. "Sit here on the rug. Mummy will be right back."

She scooped up the soiled pyjamas with two fingers as if following hazmat protocol, looking for all the world like she was going to throw up, too. She then left, returning to the room to strip the sheets from Mabel's bed, pull out some new sheets and new pyjamas for Mabel. She was in the hallway with an armful of dirty fabric when crying commenced from the children's bedroom. Billy.

She backtracked to the bedroom when the crying began from the bathroom again. "Oh no, oh no," said Bridget.

Mark jumped to the bath, saw Mabel had been unable to control herself on the carpet, then jumped back to Billy to see him clambering down from the top bunk, looking utterly miserable and a bit green, before he vomited as well. Mark wished in an instant that he could help, even in some small way, especially when he saw Bridget's expression of panic.

Wrangling sick children, soiled and stinking clothing and bedding was a difficult enough task to handle, but that she did so with the love for their children evident in every moment… he wished dearly that he could reach down and wrap his arms around where they sat and hugged one another.

She came to a decision to arrange a little sleeping area on the floor of the bathroom. The children, though hazy and unfocused in their sick state, clearly thought it a grand idea and curled up in the blankets and towels she brought to them.

"Mummy will be right back," she said again, picking the laundry basket up with a look of triumph on her features.

She brought the basket down to the laundry area, she plopped the pile down, went to the fridge, and a had a fortifying glug of wine. Instead of getting the laundry going, she muttered something about the laundry not going anywhere at the moment, and headed back upstairs to where the children were.

"Right. Everyone okay?"

Mabel and Billy both nodded.

"Good, wonderful. Ugh."

This last word was addressed not to the children, but was uttered as she put her hand to her stomach.

"Mummy?" asked Billy. "Are you okay?"

"Mummy'th gonna be thick," said Mabel, her hair sticking up in multiple directions in a manner that Bridget had always referred to as 'peaks and horns'.

"I am not—Oh."

Bridget lunged for the toilet and made it just in time to expunge the contents of her stomach; Mark thought it might have more to do with the wine than with the children's malady. Bridget paused to rinse her mouth out with water at the sink.

"Mummy?" Billy asked with concern. Mabel was giggling. "Mabel, it's not funny."

"Yeth it ith," Mabel said.

"It's not," said Billy.

"Children," said Bridget, affecting a tone of authority. "Come, let's try to get some sleep."

"But Mummy," Billy said as Mabel curled up on the floor. "It's not nice for her to laugh when you're being sick."

She pulled him close, kissed his cheek, then said to Billy, "I don't mind if she laughs, if it means she feels better."

At this, Billy smiled.

"And you're acting like…" _Your father_, he practically heard her say it in that hesitation. "…you're feeling a bit better too, aren't you?" she said. "Sleep."

Billy nodded, then yawned and snuggled up to his sister; within moments they were both asleep, and Bridget pulled the blankets up, leaned to kiss their foreheads before standing and sighing.

Silently, without complaint, she carefully gathered up the dirty linens and clothes from Billy's bed and the smattering of towels she'd previously missed, and brought them downstairs. After a moment's contemplation—surely considering how bad the smell would be if left until the morning—she dumped it all into the washer on the hottest setting possible, then poured in a more than adequate amount of washing powder.

She watched the agitator for a few moments to make sure everything was going all right, then brought the lid down and went back upstairs to see that Billy and Mabel were still fast asleep. She smiled tenderly, looking down over them, before coming to another decision: to join the children there on the floor. It was not until she got settled on the floor that she looked closely at herself and realised, almost with a start, that she was still wearing the nightie—and that it was now in a less than pristine condition. With a weary, resigned sigh, she simply snuggled up next to Mabel on the surprisingly cushy padding of towels, blankets, and bathroom mat, pulled the blanket over herself, and settled down to sleep.

Mark had seen her go through the day to day routine. He had seen how strong and independent she was, and he had seen to her financial independence, but the events of the evening had left him in deep despair. How scared she was, how exhausting the situation had been—though not once had her love wavered, not for a moment. She shouldn't have to have done this alone. Not any of it.

Nor should she have to do it alone for the rest of her life.

…

_Sunday 2 Sept_

Even in the absence of feeling the effects of physical desire, Mark could remember all too well the response elicited in him at seeing Bridget in certain articles of clothing. Right now, in front of the mirror, she was examining herself, all dressed to go out for the first time since he'd gone. All he could see was that she was wearing a pair of boots he'd never seen before.

Those boots. How he loved the look of them. How they conformed and accentuated the shape of her legs. Come to think of it, it was the first time in a long time he'd seen her out of baggy clothes and in something a little more formfitting. To see her in a miniskirt—rather, a short dress—after all this time… it was gorgeous.

_She_ looked gorgeous. He had always found her beautiful, but never so beautiful as when she was confident. And she seemed a bit more confident, more alive, with the returned slimness to her face and a slight concavity to her silhouette at the waist. Seeing her tonight done up to go out for drinks was the first true inkling he had that she had shed what she had referred to as 'the baby weight'.

He realised then he wasn't in her home at all. That he'd made the journey with her to another abode—Talitha's—and it was her outfit, not Bridget's, which was why he didn't recognise it. But how had he managed to travel with her? Who had the children?

Now they were travelling in a minicab, Bridget looked surprisingly sad, but was brought from her thoughts by a sharp admonition.

"Stop it," said Tom, then added, to Mark's surprise: "He would want you to have a life."

Bridget looked to where her hands were folded in her lap, didn't say anything for many moments until she looked up and said, her voice slightly panicked, "The children. What if they're… setting the house on fire? What if they're running all the taps at once?"

"Surely Daniel wouldn't allow that," drawled Talitha, "but hold on, I'll send him a text." _Ah, of course_, thought Mark; _Daniel's watching them_. With a cigarette hanging out of her mouth, unlit and waiting for the nanosecond they left the cab to light it, she thumb-typed out a message on her mobile. "You see, there we go." She held up the phone for Bridget to see.

However, when there was no immediate response, the nervous tension in the cab built palpably until Bridget reminded them that Daniel didn't text. "He's too old," she added with a giggle.

Mark was so pleased to see her smile, to hear her giggle. "Yes, darling," he said aloud. "I do want you to have a life."

Talitha rang up Daniel's mobile, put it on the speakerphone, and when Daniel answered the call flirtatiously, Mark chuckled to himself even as Bridget looked annoyed. But he reported back that all was well, that the children were asleep. This didn't surprise Mark in the least. After all, the children were all Daniel had left of his friend; Mark doubted he would allow anything untoward to happen to them.

Their destination was called The Stronghold, and the place seemed a bit odd to Mark, more like a Prohibition speakeasy than a proper nightclub. It was dark and a bit murky inside, brick and metal with only hay bales to sit upon, but to him, Bridget shone like a beacon.

"Come on girl," said Tom, the only part of the conversation he heard with any clarity. "Get back on that horse."

After Bridget glugged a cocktail way too quickly, after a false start, a leather-jacket-clad man with an almost feral glint in his eye took a seat beside her, asked her to dance… and it was with a certain melancholy that Mark watched her accept, watched this unworthy stranger lead her to the dance floor, take her into his arms, the heat of his attraction evident to anyone looking at them.

Who wouldn't be attracted to her? If he could, he'd be pulling the man off of her to dance with her himself, but it was enough to see that maybe she wasn't so broken that she couldn't be restored.

Mark then watched as this man kissed her, and his melancholy deepened as he watched Bridget kiss him back. _This is what you wanted_, he told himself. _And this is what she needs_.

Still. He thought fondly of her kiss, remembered how desperate his want for her had been nearly from the moment he'd met her—

"I've got to go! Now!" she said, pushing away from the stranger, who was understandably confused. She had been clearly enjoying herself—but her cheeks were now wet. Mascara smudged. Eyes red. Panic? Guilt? A little of both? Was she unaware she'd been crying?

"What?"

"Awfully sorry!" she said, attempting braveness, brightness. "Must be going. Jolly good! Thanks!"

"Go?" the man asked. Then the stranger saw what Mark had seen. Her teary eyes. "Oh God. That face."

She retreated quickly out of the place, nearly stumbling down the steep stairs in those incredibly high heels; she was followed quickly by her friends, who soon landed a minicab for them.

Mark was grateful for two things: that they got her laughing again as they wound their way towards her house, and that she had at least had a momentary reminder that she was alive and desirable, and he hoped it was enough to wake her from her slumber and bring her back to the world. Even if the man who'd done it was less than worthy; approached like a predator, not even ask her for her name? Was she no more to him than easy pickings? It was just as well that Bridget had fled.

And then, to Mark's horror, Talitha announced that she had gotten his number for Bridget. _No, no, no_, he thought. _Bridget, the Dating War Command failed you miserably in the past. Don't take it. Don't call him. He's not the one I'd want to see you with._

Maybe, just maybe, Mark himself could take on the challenge of finding that someone. Take on the challenge of steering her towards him. Steer them towards each other.

Once back in the sanctity of her home, she had to then deal with the disaster-area left by the now-sleeping children and a naked Daniel in her bed; Daniel, who had apparently temporarily lost his mind. She fended him off successfully—to his credit he had the sense not to press the matter, else Mark might have tried to knock him out, body or not—but once she was alone again, once she was in bed looking up at the ceiling, Mark could tell that the night had left her unsettled as well as unsatisfied.

At least, though, Bridget had a sense now that she was missing out on something.

…

Sometimes opening one door heralded others opening, too. As the leaves faded and withered again with another autumn well underway, Bridget was blooming in other ways.

Mark watched as she befriended a neighbour, one that would have been quite at home in her old neighbourhood rife with 'Free South Africa' posters; she had crazed hair, an endless supply of unusual hats, and an otherwise unique fashion sense and was called Rebecca; frankly, it was nice to have a new face to put to that name. What he especially liked was that Rebecca had two children; less so that they were called Finn and Oleander. Even if their names did spark a nostalgic recollection of their own discussions of naming their children.

He also watched her find her professional motivation again, at which he was beyond thrilled; in June, she began to work on a screenplay she called _The Leaves in His Hair_, which was based on Ibsen's _Hedda Gabler_, though he did have to laugh at her misapprehension that it was a.) _Hedda_ _Gabbler_ and b.) Chekhov's work.

Bridget had also gone out with the leather-clad man from the club a few times. The attempt at a relationship didn't go anywhere, but Mark gave her credit for trying. He was also pleased that the failure hadn't put her off of the idea permanently.

The appearance of coats, hats and mufflers told Mark the weather was turning bitterly cold; the smattering of holiday decorations that had begun to appear told him that another Christmas was on its way. Though she had made forward progress in many ways, in others she had not.

Like this particular evening. She was actually looking a dating site, had been excited about getting a response, then let out a strangled gasp when she saw the photo attached (and a gasp that was well-justified, as the man was shades of Wild Boy from her dating years, something they had laughed about together long after the fact).

She dropped her face down into her hands. "Mark. Please help me, Mark."

He didn't think she even was aware she said it aloud.

_Call someone_, he thought. _Talk to someone. Don't try to brazen this out alone._ After a moment, imagining he was stroking her hair soothingly, he said, "Call Tom."

She sat upright—for a dazzling moment it seemed as if she had actually heard him—sniffed, wiped her eyes then reached for the phone.

"Tom," she said. "Tom, I can't do this dating thing, but I can't carry on like this either. I feel lost."

He could hear Tom speaking to her through the receiver as if Tom was there in the room. Telling her to grieve. Telling her to wallow in her grief—and not feel guilty for grieving. Telling her to put down on paper all the things she hadn't gotten a chance to say, the things she'd say if she could. That all of this was necessary for closure. For her to be able to move on.

There was a protracted period of silence before she spoke. "I know," she said.

"Then do it," said Tom. "Tonight."

She took in a breath—long, shaky, measured—before she agreed.

"Go on, then," Tom encouraged. "You'll feel better for it."

They said goodnight; Bridget put the phone down, stood from the seat, closed the laptop, and glanced in the direction of where the children were. In a flash Mark was with them; Mabel had crawled up to cuddle in the top bunk with her brother. His beautiful children, already so much older than when he'd left for Sudan, deep in slumber and taking comfort in one another. As he expected, Bridget appeared and climbed up to lie down beside them. Mark drew back to take in the scene.

His beautiful family.

"Mummy?" It was Billy, rousing partly from sleep.

"Yes."

"Where is Dada?" he asked.

Bridget looked a bit stunned; why were they all in this trough tonight, of all nights? "I don't know," she said. "But…" Bridget drifted off when she realised Billy was asleep again.

"Right here," Mark said; not as if they could hear, but he spoke anyway. "Always with you."

He left the room to paradoxically find her in the bedroom; a shoebox worth of clippings was fanned around her. Clippings, he realised, that were all about his death, the details of which he'd yet had no information. He was not sure he wanted to know, even as he drew nearer to them.

A landmine. It was a landmine that had ended his life, along with that of his travelling companion, Anton. There was some consolation to him in that the British aid workers had been freed, but… landmine. Explosion. No wonder Bridget was still grieving, still needed closure. There was probably not much of a body for her to have grieved over.

There were photos, too, of him, of them, of all of them in happier days. It seemed a bit weird to him to have nearly forgotten what he'd looked like, and it underscored the fact that his son looked more and more like him every day.

Poor Bridget. Now she was sobbing, prostrate on the floor amongst the clippings, clinging to a pale blue object that he recognised as one of his own dress shirts. Then she sat up, sniffed, and grabbed her diary and a pen.

_Dear Mark_, it began. And once she began to write, the words flowed as quickly as the tears; partly she talked about how much she missed and loved him still—_I so fucking miss you and miss fucking you_—but it surprised him that so much of her letter to him was about how she felt incapable of doing any of this on her own. How she felt incapable of being a good mother or of raising them. _Please forgive me_. Knowing he'd taken every precaution he could think of to be safe, never thinking he wouldn't return. Wishing they could have done this all together. Dying as he had—

Suddenly, he was surrounded by darkness and a silvery, moonlit landscape; it was disorientating for a moment until he realised he was outside. _No, no, I want to be there_—

That thump again, that bodily impact, and suddenly he was soaring in the air, rising up into the sky then coasting down again until he found a perch on the garden wall. Opposite the children's room. Mabel at the window, standing there, staring up at the moon, her blonde hair wild around her head and glowing in the moonlight.

Staring at the owl on the garden wall.

They looked at each other for many moments. Then Mabel turned, and beyond her, entering the room, he saw Bridget. Mabel pointed towards the outside, towards where he sat. Bridget followed the direction in which Mabel pointed, followed the direction of Mabel's gaze.

Their eyes met. There was so much he wished he could say to her:

_I love you. I miss you. You are doing wonderfully by the children—you clearly love them, you're always there for them; they're happy and secure, and adore and love you in return. There is nothing at all for which you need forgiveness._

_Forgive me for leaving you._

But then Mabel started tugging at the curtains, breaking their connection; Bridget looked away, took her hand, started to speak as the curtains fully closed. Instinctively he knew she was reciting the comforting bedtime verse he'd written.

_All the thoughts are going away, just like the little birds in their nests…_

The curtains parted again, and there was Bridget, her eyes fixed on him again, on the owl, for many bittersweet moments. _Know that it's me, darling. Know that I'm proud of you, and that I love you. I always will. And I'm sorry._

Then the curtains drew closed, and she was gone.

…

_2013_

It was amazing to Mark how quickly children could move.

He had joined the three of them, as he often did, on an outing, this time to Hampstead Heath; after a spooky silence during the car ride, the children had snapped back to the present and were playing on and around the tree. He noticed that Bridget took the opportunity to check her phone, which she had been doing a lot since the night of her letter to him. He thought it was a good sign, but he wasn't entirely sure, to be at the very least interested in online socialisation more than she used to be. Something called Twitter, on which she went by JonesyBJ; he supposed it was part of her process for closure to embrace her maiden name again. Mark was part amused and part terrified that Bridget might broadcast to the world every thought that passed through her head—

"Mummeee! Mabel's stuck in the tree!"

Bridget's head snapped up and in that same instant Mark went to Mabel. It had been a matter of a seconds since she—they—had looked away. Poor Mabel looked terrified as Bridget (suddenly without her parka) came to her, climbed a short distance up into the tree, and put a hand up under her small backside. Then Billy announced he could not get down either from his limb, so in lieu of helping them down one at a time, she leaned against the tree, stepped onto a low branch, reached over and placed her free hand under Billy.

_Now what?_ Mark thought with some amusement, thinking surely she would employ logic, but as she remained, as the low waistband of her jeans dropped slightly lower, he realised she was perhaps genuinely panicking.

"Is everything all right up there?"

This query—a concerned, deep male voice—came from behind Bridget, from a man dressed in track bottoms and a tee-shirt. Mabel said helpfully, "Is Mr Wolkda."

Bridget turned to glance at him over her shoulder. The look of—he wasn't sure, was it slight disgust? No, more like mortification—told Mark she did know the man, at least. An odd name, Mr Wolkda. From where did they know him? Mabel's school? The use of "mister" seemed to indicate as much.

Mark scrutinised him just as he realised this man was scrutinising Bridget's posterior (much as he had just been, with a similar appreciative interest that was all too plain on his features) as he approached. "Is everything all right up there?" he asked again.

Bridget had the temerity to tell him that everything was all right; Mark found himself amused that this Wolkda fellow was about to call her bluff and walk away.

"Um…" said Bridget. "Mr Wallaker?" Wallaker. Mark should have known Mabel was mispronouncing.

"Yeees?" Wallaker asked, in a tone rather similar to one Mark had himself taken many times.

"Could you just…?" she began, trailing off, still straining to reach a hand under each child's bottom.

To Mark's surprise—and sudden admiration—Wallaker snapped to action and took charge of the situation, successfully getting Billy down from the tree with a jump and a roll that caused Bridget to nearly scream. Then he went to help Mabel down; to hear the man call her Mrs Darcy sent a jolt through Mark. Of course she was. But she wasn't, not for years now.

The sight of Wallaker reaching up around Bridget flared a pang of protectiveness, perhaps jealousy, within Mark, for which he immediately chastised himself. _You want her to move on_, he thought.

Bridget then jumped down from the side of the tree while Wallaker took Mabel firmly in hand, leaned her on his shoulder, then set her down to the grass.

Mabel stared up at Wallaker with giant blue eyes, an expression that reminded Mark very much of her mother. "I thaid Fuckoon," she said solemnly; Mark instantly recognised her mispronunciation of 'racoon'.

With equal solemnity, Wallaker said, his expression kind, "I nearly said that too. But we're _all_ all right now, aren't we?"

Billy spoke up. "Will you play football with me?"

The question pained Mark to hear. Billy had just asked Bridget that morning to play football, and Bridget had always done so happily, but his son was missing out by not being able to play football with his father.

"Got to get home to, er, the family," Wallaker said. Family. Married? Why did this disappoint Mark so? "Now, try to avoid the upper branches."

Without further preamble, the man began his jog again. No goodbye, no 'see you later'… he just headed off.

"Mr Wallaker?"

Wallaker turned.

"Thank you," Bridget said, then, after a beat, added, "Will you follow me on Twitter?"

Wallaker blinked. "Absolutely not."

After the man had left again, Bridget sighed, looked to Billy, then smiled. "We could play some football."

Billy smiled. "Okay."

The whole interaction left Mark puzzled—a married man, one who apparently knew the children well enough that he knew their names and they trusted him, unabashedly gazing at Bridget's backside—until he realised just because Wallaker was married didn't mean he couldn't appreciate it.

Curious. Mark was decidedly curious. He liked what he saw of this Wallaker fellow so far. He was good with the children and was clearly attracted to Bridget; too bad he wasn't available.

…

Since Bridget's mornings were increasingly spent writing her screenplay once the children were off to school, Mark decided to accompany the children to see what their days were like. He hadn't done it so far, much to his chagrin; he also had to admit a curiosity to see if his hunch was correct about the man from Hampstead Heath.

He alternated between Billy's day and Mabel's; he had been incorrect in thinking Wallaker was Mabel's teacher, when he was actually Billy's sports teacher. And it was Billy's day that Mark found ultimately more compelling. Billy displayed obvious respect for Wallaker during the sports sessions; Wallaker was demanding but fair, and made the boys work hard for what they wanted. He gave them appropriate amounts of praise and attention when they succeeded, and constructive feedback and corrective guidance when they failed.

He was pleased that Billy had Wallaker as a positive influence at the same time he felt terribly guilty he could not offer such influence himself. Mark was also proud of Billy for more than just his reported marks; he was a well-behaved, responsible child who seemed particularly attuned to others. He wanted to please others, but by the same token did not allow others to take advantage of him.

Yes, Mark was very proud indeed.

As young as she was, Mabel's day in Infants was far less structured; he found great pleasure in watching her run around during activities, or drawing in art class, even if the charming results looked nothing like what she claimed they were. She reminded him of Bridget so much it overjoyed and overwhelmed him. How he ever could have envisioned a strict, overly structured life for his children was a mystery to him. He was grateful he had compromised with Bridget in this way, and was also grateful to bear witness to the fruits borne of seeds planted long ago.


	3. Chapter 3

**The Owl**

By S. Faith, © 2014

Words: 24,800 in 4 chapters  
><span>Rating<span>: T / PG-13  
><span>Summary, Disclaimer, Notes<span>: See Chapter 1.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 3<strong>

It was nice to see her smiling again.

There had always been a sort of childlike wonder about her, and at the news that a storm front was moving in it seemed to Mark that Bridget was as excited as the children were about the snow that was expected to fall. In fact, he started to think that she was more excited, because she was able to get Billy and Mabel to bed (and to sleep) and afterward still enthuse about the snow, pulling the curtain aside every five minutes to see if it had begun yet, typing into her phone and chuckling to herself.

Mark felt a bit strange about watching her on her phone, like he was going to be scolded for staring at any moment. He was curious enough and could easily have read the interactions, but didn't. He had no desire to violate her privacy; he never would have dreamt to read over her shoulder in life and was not about to start now. It was enough for Mark to watch her find a bit of happiness after so long without any in evidence, aside from the children.

There was still no snow the next morning; all of them were disappointed to peer through the window, equally so when the alert never came to say there would be a Snow Day, so dispiritedly they piled into the car for school.

She dropped Mabel to Infants, then brought Billy over to Junior Branch, where the boys were giddy with anticipation of the snow, too, perking Billy up. Wallaker was there as well, trying futilely to get the boys lined up, for what purpose, Mark was not sure; then he approached Bridget, and from the way she reacted, she hadn't heard him come nearer.

"Snow today, Mrs Darcy! Going to be climbing trees?"

"I know!" she said with a pout and obvious dismay in her voice. "I've been waiting for it all night. But where is it?"

"On its way from the west!" Wallaker continued. "It's snowing in Somerset. Do you enjoy snow?"

"Punctual snow," she muttered.

How blithely she'd swept aside the reference to the tree climbing; how sullen she was behaving on the subject of snow. Mark could empathise with the man as he attempted to…

"Maybe it's been held up on the M4," said Wallaker wryly. "It's closed by snow at Junction 13."

Flirt? Was Wallaker, a married man, actually trying to flirt? Mark recognised the pattern from his own attempts to flirt with Bridget all those years ago: trying to be funny, often coming off sounding like a fool, or worse yet, rude. She was either unaware of his efforts—much as she had been with Mark, once upon a time—or was ignoring them, knowing he was married.

Very curious, though, that the man would flirt at all.

"Wait," said Billy. "How could snow be held up by snow?"

Wallaker looked to Billy as his eyes crinkled with the hint of a smile; at this Billy's face was transformed by a huge grin. Strangely, Bridget seemed dismayed; this response reminded Mark of how Pam, Bridget's mother, used to accuse Bridget and her father of having a grown-up club of two, and he wondered if Bridget felt the same, even if not consciously.

"Have a nice day!" Bridget blurted, then tried stalking off back to the car as best she could in heeled boots on the ice.

_Yes_, Mark thought. Wallaker, whose eyes followed Bridget the entire way as she departed, was definitely flirting. But it made no sense that a married man of such apparent moral uprightness and military-like bearing in all his endeavours—evidenced in what Mark had seen at the school—would be openly flirting with the mother of one of his students. (Openly by Mark's standards, anyway.)

She returned home only to be distracted by both the snow that started later in the morning and then by her phone. Shortly after noon, she became even more excited (and yet as if torn about something) after checking her phone. He stole a glance at the text, which informed her that the school was closing at half one, and to come and get the children as soon as possible. She opened the door with palpable excitement, saw the snow sifting down, then with glee ran to get the sledges out of the cupboard, put together a bag of sledging supplies, then went and got dressed in full ski kit. Mark couldn't help feeling a bit nostalgic at seeing her, goggles, hat, scarf, and all; he could only think of their first Valentine, the ski minibreak together.

Once she had the car all loaded up, she crept towards the school at a snail's pace (good, considering the weather conditions) to get Billy and Mabel. At her appearance in the school hall, Wallaker turned. He was there with the remaining children and had clearly been in conversation with a coquettishly laughing woman, dressed from head to toe in winter couture; she reminded Mark uncomfortably of the Rebecca who had tried to pinch him away from Bridget. Wallaker took in Bridget's appearance—snow-laden and slightly dishevelled, though charming and, as always in Mark's eyes, gorgeous—then proceeded to break out in laughter.

Mark could see the reason, though. In that moment before Wallaker had turned and laughed, he had been merely tolerating the presence of this other woman. Seeing Bridget dressed in the ski gear over her jeans and jumper, goggles over her eyes, hair sticking out from under the edge of the hat, did not inspire laughter out of disdain or mockery, but because she was so strikingly different from this other woman as night was from day. So unpolished and fresh in comparison. The laughter was borne of an almost relief.

_But maybe I'm wrong_, Mark thought; _maybe I'm projecting myself onto this man, this veritable stranger. Maybe he prefers the polished perfection of a woman like this one._

Then Billy and Mabel came running towards her, calling Mummy and begging to go sledging, and he knew in an instant that he was right. As she informed the children that the sledges were in the car, he watched Wallaker's expression change ever so slightly, become more tender, more wistful, as if he would have loved nothing more than to go sledging with them. It took Mark by surprise, realising that this initial thoughts had been correct. The man was not just physically attracted to Bridget, but seemed to be more drawn to her after seeing her looking bedraggled and snow-sodden. He liked her as a person. Maybe even cared for her. And as she took the children away, waddling a bit due to the layers of clothing, Wallaker's eyes never left her once, never lost the tenderness with which he was observing her and the children.

_I know how a man like that thinks_, thought Mark. _I was that man._

It was at that moment that Mark decided to learn a little bit more about Wallaker, to see what would cause a man to long for something he should have already had. But first, sledging with the children and Bridget.

…

The flat was quite large and comfortable, and had been decorated in a rather spartan manner. It seemed very clear to Mark, however, that despite its size, Wallaker occupied the place all on his own.

When Wallaker hung his jacket in the front closet, Mark noted there were no items that were clearly not his own: no women's coats, no children's boots and hats. Eating dinner consisted of retrieving a container clearly marked with a date and popping it into a microwave; the note pinned to the freezer door stated, "Mr Wallaker, I put a new batch of dinners in. Hope that you like them. – Martha."

All of this perplexed Mark. If he were married, where was his wife? There was a photo of children, two boys not too much older than Billy, framed and standing by on the lamp stand near the flat's entrance, but no evidence of the boys themselves. No track shoes, no excess of jackets, no electronic paraphernalia and cords strewn about. Sons? If so, where were they?

The microwave timer went off, so Wallaker roused from his reverie, pulled out the food dish, lifted the lid and was greeted by a billow of steam. It looked to Mark to be some sort of chicken pot pie, a serving for one, though a serving that was in proportion to a grown man of Wallaker's stature. "She's outdone herself," he said between enthusiastic forkfuls.

When he was finished with the meal, Wallaker sat on his sofa and began reading from a rather thick tome, but Mark noticed he began to stare out into space before forcing his attention back to the book. After three or four such occurrences, Wallaker closed the book forcefully, set it down with a noisy huff of breath, rose from his sofa and began to prepare for bed for the night.

It was not a long visitation, but it was quite illuminating to Mark. The man was clearly married in name only, but did not apparently broadcast this status nor did he take advantage of the attention that the women he encountered at the school showered upon him every day. Did Wallaker still love his estranged wife? Did she have the children living with her? Did they live in the city?

Suddenly he was back at Bridget's, curious at to why he was even wondering about Wallaker and his children. But he knew, deep down, that Wallaker was just the sort of man that could be a very good influence on them… good for the children and especially for Bridget. Still, he could not help wanting to know more about Wallaker's wife; if he could only know the situation for certain he would not worry quite so much and hope only that Bridget would see what was directly in front of her.

Mark would have to be patient with Bridget's progress; after all, it had taken her a while the last time 'round.

…

The realisation caught him short.

It was something Mark had wanted for her, because he wanted her to remember she had a life to finish living, but the meanderings upon which he had embarked regarding his children, his curiosity with Wallaker, meant that he had somehow missed the fact that Bridget had set up and gone on a… well, a date of sorts with a completely different man. An unknown quantity.

Mark thought it was a bit ironic, really, that this should be have begun on Epiphany. That was what she'd told Talitha about when she had met the man with whom she had later arranged a date; well, met _online_, anyway, as they apparently had never actually seen one another in the flesh before said date.

And the date must have gone well, he reasoned; otherwise, why would she be, at present, ringing up her friends to get an opinion about sleeping with him on the next date? The second date?

"You said, 'not before you feel ready'," Bridget said, "not 'too soon'. We've been texting for weeks." _Weeks_; he thought of the attention she had paid her phone. "Surely it's rather like in Jane Austen's day when they did letter-writing for months and months and then just, like, immediately got married?"

"Bridget." Mark could hear the voice—Talitha, he thought—on the other end bark. She said more, inaudible to him. He could only shake his head and smile; it was so like Bridget to think in terms like that.

Bridget replied with a pout, "But it was _you_ who said, 'She has to get laid.'"

And then she was talking about condoms and slips, and he suddenly ached for her like he hadn't in some time.

…

Daniel had the children. He was apparently taking them to the cinema, and Bridget… she was going to see a film, too, with this Roxster fellow, though it was unlikely they would also be seeing _Wreck-It Ralph_.

They met at the cinema. Mark felt it was his duty to tag along, for his own peace of mind. The thing about Roxster that surprised Mark the most was how young the man was. If he was yet in his thirties, it was in the early part of that decade. Roxster was handsome, very polite, very charming. Excellent physical shape. And a gleam in his eye that Mark recognised at once. Desire for her.

Bridget looked beautiful in dark blue silk; it was a dress she was very fond of wearing, especially with those shoes, the ones she always liked to wear with it. It was wonderful to see her so happy, smiling and carefree, like in the earliest days of their own courtship.

Mark didn't think it was prudent to hang around like a third wheel on the date, or at the dinner after the date; instead, he visited the children at Daniel's, which filled his heart with happiness as well as amusement. After the film, they had pizzas and cola (of which he was sure Bridget would not have approved), and then Daniel, Billy and Mabel made a circle of all of the toys they'd brought with them and constructed, on the fly, an entire intricate story about an adventure upon which they then embarked, along the lines of the Fellowship of the Ring.

They stayed up way too late, running around and shouting like maniacs until collapsing onto the sofa sound asleep in front of a blaring telly. No pyjamas, no washing of hands and teeth. But they'd had a fantastic time, and they were happy.

It was quiet in the Chalk Farm house when Mark snapped back in, and pitch dark with only hints of the light of the waning moon through the window. He went into the bedroom, and she was there, sleeping; the look of contentment on her features, the laxness in her limbs that told of utter relaxation, was pleasing to see.

She was not alone. Beside her, curled up with her, was the young man with whom she'd had the date. Huge improvement over the man in the leather jacket, he supposed; although he was happy that she'd finally been able to move forward and bring herself back to life and to living, he had to wonder what she was thinking choosing a man who was in a totally different stage of his life than she was. This man was young, just finding himself, just getting settled in the world. She needed someone solid, established, someone who understood her; she needed a partner. He was glad she was taking care of her own needs for a change… but she needed more than just sex.

He supposed it was a good sign that this boy—this _man_, he corrected himself—cared enough to stay the night. But he guessed this was what she needed for now, and it would have to be all right.

He wandered away and into the yard, where he fortuitously found the owl, who carried him away to forget his troubles; for if he was no longer tethered to this world by her, what would become of him?

…

One night with Roxster became two, then a week, then a month, and before Mark knew it, the trees began budding green and the calendar said April. Mark still had his reservations about Roxster; not that he was bad for her—in fact, he was quite an upstanding man, kind and courteous, and really did seem to care for her—but he just did not see a future in which Roxster was a father figure for Mabel and Billy. And it would have to be a package deal. She loved their children too much. Mark wondered if she sensed this too; after all, it had been nearly two months and the children had yet to meet him.

Mark had been keeping tabs on Wallaker as well; he seemed determined, suddenly, to try to make it work with his estranged wife, which puzzled Mark, as the woman—wealthy, pampered, haughty—seemed to do nothing but anger him. Wallaker went to stay at what Mark presumed was the family home while the boys were not in school, and seeing Wallaker interacting with his sons Matt and Fred (13 and 11, respectively)—kicking the football around in the warming weather—made Mark smile even as it made him ache to do the same with Billy. Sarah, Wallaker's wife, had claimed to want a reconciliation for the sake of their children, but seemed very distant, seemed unwilling to be involved, dashing off to the shops or to the hairdresser whenever he was around. The woman, indeed, seemed made of plastic and fuelled by alcohol.

Mark considered, with no small amount of amusement, that he had perhaps spent a bit too much time with Wallaker and his family, to know so much about what was going on in the man's life; at this stage, he surely knew more than Bridget did. But everything Mark saw convinced him that Wallaker would be a good stepfather for Mabel and Billy… and Bridget, in turn, could do Fred and Matt a world of good, too, having a female role model who exuded warmth and fun… the very opposite of their biological mother.

But Mark was putting the cart well before the horse.

Now… now he was with Billy at the school, witnessing his obvious upset when he didn't get picked for chess. Waiting for the school pickup, Mark listened to one overbearing, overly polished designer mother—the same one from the day of the snow storm—complaining about her son never being actually allowed onto the pitch for the football matches.

"I _demand_ to know why Atticus—" _Atticus?_ Mark was grateful they'd chosen something more ordinary for their son. "—is not getting to participate more in football. For what we pay for him to come here, he deserves equal time on the pitch. He cannot fill his quota of team-building—"

Wallaker turned and fixed a very glacial gaze upon her, stopping her in her tracks. "Because," he said, "he's rubbish. Anything else?" When it was apparent she had nothing more, Wallaker turned and left to tend to a group of unsupervised boys. Mark could understand Wallaker's frustration; he must have had just such an encounter with mothers like this on a daily basis, demanding more for their sons than to which they had earned.

When Bridget arrived some moments later, Nicolette—that was this woman's name, Mark learned—was relaying the conversation with Wallaker, though painting herself in a far more sympathetic light, evoking images of a tearful Atticus, which in turn made Wallaker look like an ogre. Getting the unruly boys to order by having them march in time to his whistle-bleats was precisely as he would expect any sensible sports teacher to do, particularly one with his military background (as Mark had learnt through more than one argument with Sarah, blaming his leaving for the service for why the marriage had failed). Why did the group of mothers seem so standoffish about it? Would they have preferred the boys running round like wild animals?

It was then that Billy came to Bridget, looking as mournful as Mark had ever seen him, and relayed his news about being passed over for the chess team.

Bridget looked to him—Mark swore he saw a flicker of pain in her eyes—before she crouched down to give him a quick hug. "It doesn't matter about being picked or winning," she murmured to him in that soothing tone he'd heard many times, with himself, with the children. "It's who you are that counts."

"Of course it _matters_," said Wallaker, clearly startling Bridget, and staring at her with the same intensity with which he had Nicolette. "He has to practise. He has to earn it." He then turned away, muttering, "The sense of entitlement amongst the mothers in this school defies belief."

Mark was astounded; did Wallaker actually believe Bridget was trying to wedge Billy onto the team without earning his place?

"Practise?" Bridget said sarcastically. "Why, I'd _never_ have thought of that! You must be terribly clever, Mr Wallaker. I mean, sir."

Wallaker turned back to her, his eyes practically chips of ice.

"What has this got to with the Sports Department?" she went on.

"I teach the chess class."

Her features brightened. "But how lovely! Do you use the whistle?"

Bridget's retort set him off balance, and Wallaker turned to shout at a boy who had gotten into a flower bed. Billy took Bridget's hand to explain that the boys who got picked got a couple of days off for the tournament.

"I'll practise with you," she said, and as they went on discussing chess, he noticed Wallaker's reaction: amused, because Billy was talking of how Bridget couldn't possibly have let him win, as if Bridget were his contemporary and not his mother; and a bit regretful at having vented at her, thinking she was going to try to exert her will to get Billy a spot on the team, when she hadn't done that at all.

Mark also noticed Wallaker hadn't actually walked away, and in fact was still there to engage her: "Perhaps you could join the chess class, Mrs Darcy? There is an age limit of seven, but if we stretch that to mental age, I'm sure you'll be fine." Mark detected a bit of piss-taking. "Did Billy tell you his other news?"

"Oh!" Billy said with a smile. "I've got nits!"

At this Bridget looked totally devastated. "Nits!" she exclaimed, reaching to touch her own hair.

"Yes, nits. They've all got them." Wallaker looked curiously amused. "I realise this will cause a National Emergency amongst the north London Mumserati and their coiffeurs but you simply need to nit-comb them. And yourself, of course."

Mark saw a million thoughts cross her features, all of them clearly worrisome; he was not alone in noticing, though. "Everything all right?" asked Wallaker.

"Yes, no, super!" she said. This reversion to her mum told Mark it was not all right at all. "Everything's fine, jolly good, bye then, Mr Wallaker."

After a side trip to the chemist's for nit-ridding paraphernalia, she returned home, got the children somewhat situated and started supper preparation. All the while, though, she was clearly distracted by something, and if Mark had to guess, it had to do with breaking the news to Roxster about the nits.

When the phone rang amongst a cacophony of Mabel singing and Billy shouting at her not to sing, Mark quickly deduced that it had something to do with Bridget's screenplay, the one she'd been working on for some time, given that she asked, "Does that mean they're going to make it into a film?" between trying to wrest a knife from Mabel and getting them to sit to watch the telly but having a terrible time with the remotes. Setting up a meeting for noon on Monday (amongst declarations that Mabel had killed her "brudder") seemed to take her mind off of the nit-worry, at least, until they sat down to do the nit-combing (which yielded unfortunate results).

As unimportant as the screenplay being optioned might have seemed in the grand scheme, he was proud of her for doing it, for getting back into the working world on her terms, not because she had to, but because she loved having something to do that was for herself. He had always wanted her to retain her own identity, and not be subsumed by being "Mark's wife" or "Billy's mum". He was also very impressed by the quickness with which she, a new writer, had had her screenplay optioned. This accomplishment was no small feat; he didn't have to be a screenwriter to know this.

…

As proud as Mark was of Bridget, he was even prouder of his children. Despite being a bit bizarre at times—holding staring contests with chairs, and so on—Mabel was such a delight, clever and creative, and a bright spot in Bridget's life.

And Billy. One incident seemed to exemplify the fine young man his son was becoming. During sports Mark was pleased to see Billy take an avid interest in football, but he was far more keen on good sportsmanship than he was on winning the match. When one of his classmates fell and scuffed his knee, Billy, who had possession of the ball and had with certainty been about to score a goal, called a halt to ensure the boy was all right, despite shouts from the other kids to get on with the game.

"He's fine!" shouted one. "What are you doing?"

"He's not even on our _team_!" roared another.

"That doesn't matter," said Billy. "It's a fun game, but it's only a game, and it's not any fun if someone gets hurt."

Mark was pleased at Billy's philosophy, and could see that this sentiment scored big points with Wallaker. "Well done," said Wallaker to him, patting him on the shoulder as he walked by at the conclusion of the match.

"Mr Wallaker?"

"Hm?" Wallaker stopped and turned to face Billy.

Billy looked very solemn. "Can I ask you a favour?"

Wallaker narrowed his eyes, clearly curious about his seriousness. "Ask away."

"Can you maybe not tell my mum about this?"

"Um, if you don't want me to, I won't," he said, "but why not?"

"Well, it's just something that might make her sad," Billy said.

"I don't understand. Sad that you did a good thing?"

"She always says that my dad said you should never make a big deal about doing the right thing," Billy said. "I know she likes when I act like my dad, but I know it makes her sad, too." He added in a quieter voice, "I hear her cry at night, sometimes."

"Oh," Wallaker said, looking sober before he offered a smile. "Well, your dad was absolutely correct in that."

"Mabel's not so good yet at acting like my dad but she is only five…"

Billy went on a little bit more but Mark felt as if the wind had been knocked from him. To know that she'd worked to instil his principles in his children was one thing. To see that the principles had actually taken root… it touched him deeply. It was lovely to see. Lovely to know. It shouldn't have surprised him at all, but strangely, it did.

"Admirable," said Wallaker. "Quite admirable. Think I would have liked your dad."

Billy grinned. "I think so, too." Then his features went serious again. "And Mummy?"

"Pardon?"

"What about Mummy?" Billy asked. "Do you like her?"

"As well as any of the mums," said Wallaker gruffly, clearing his throat. "Now go on, change for class."

_Well_, thought Mark. That flush of red creeping up Wallaker's neck told quite a different story. Perhaps dealing with his estranged wife wasn't the only reason he had been so grumpy.

…

The children's meeting Roxster for the first time was not especially auspicious; it was heralded with fire, or at least a sausage-fat-induced smoke haze enough to set off the alarm. Mark supposed he had to give her credit, though, for waiting a couple of months before allowing them to meet Roxster, lest the kids be confused.

Bridget's burgeoning friendship, or whatever it was, with Wallaker hit a bit of a roadblock shortly thereafter. Billy hadn't done well at a spelling test at school, and during a conversation with Billy's form teacher, Wallaker (who came up out of nowhere for this conversation) opined that he needed more organisation at home.

While he wasn't completely wrong, it came out sounding like Bridget was some kind of all-around failure, and she showed her displeasure acutely. The form teacher tried to explain about what had happened to Mark, but Wallaker explained that he already knew.

"So we must make some allowances. It will be fine, Mrs Darcy. You are not to worry." This from the form teacher, a man whose name Mark could never remember, before he left.

Wallaker spoke again, and Mark was sure he meant well: "Billy needs discipline and structure. That's what will help him."

Bridget seemed to see it differently. "He does have discipline," she countered, pointing out that Billy had enough of his type of his sort of discipline in sports and in chess.

"You call _that_ discipline? Wait 'til he gets to boarding school."

Mark saw Bridget's features fall in shock. He knew why. He had made her promise never to send the children off to boarding school, and he knew she was passionate enough about the matter to never break her word. "_Boarding school_? He's not going to boarding school."

Wallaker's eyes narrowed. "What's wrong with boarding school? My boys are at boarding school. Pushes them to their limits, teaches them valour, courage—"

"What about when things go wrong?" she interrupted. "What about someone to listen to them when they don't win? What about fun, what about love and cuddles?"

"Cuddles?" he asked. "_Cuddles?_"

Poor man. Poor, poor man. Wallaker would never win this argument with her. And Mark would never want him to.

Wallaker got a big surprise, though; after yet another wisecrack about a spending her days sitting in a hairdresser's salon, she advised him, angrily and in no uncertain terms, that she was a working woman, and had written a screenplay that was about to go into production. And while he had the presence of mind to correct her misapprehension about the true author (and pronunciation/spelling) of _Hedda Gabler_, and had gained no small amount of satisfaction for getting in the last (rather smug) word, Wallaker had clearly had no idea she was not in fact like the other mums.

Bridget had called him rude and bossy… but Billy had let slip that he liked Wallaker. And Mark wasn't sure if she was furious more about Wallaker's sexist assumptions, or for Billy's admission.

Once Bridget turned away, Mark saw something very familiar about Wallaker's expression; it reflected something with which he was well acquainted. Frustration. After all, his own interactions with Bridget in the earliest days of their relationship—rather, proto-relationship—were fraught with a similar frustration.

Mark had great faith though.

…

Mark thought that Bridget didn't begin to realise that Roxster was not right for the long term until two things happened. Both major in their own way, and both almost as important.

The first happened at Talitha's sixtieth birthday extravaganza just after the boarding school brouhaha. That was the night the age difference really came to the fore, because there was no avoiding that Roxster was only turning thirty (a fact that had taken Mark quite aback). They'd had a wonderful night together at the party; it was only afterwards, as they left, that Roxster had dropped a nugget of uncomfortable truth amongst his effusive praise to Bridget: he wished for a time machine.

Despite previous protestations, the age difference did matter to Roxster. Wishing for a time machine told Bridget he wished he could have met her Before: before she'd met Mark, before she'd had children, before she'd gotten old enough to be his own mother. And after that, nothing was quite the same for Bridget. The elephant had taken up a position in the room.

The second occurred shortly after that, like the conclusion to a one-two punch. Approximately a month after Roxster's introduction to the children, at the beginning of June, she finally witnessed the look of annoyance the man usually wore when faced with the reality of the children. Mark had seen it before, but she had not. They were still able to make a night of it—he did not remain in the proximity, but instead, found the owl—but Mark knew she wouldn't forget what she'd seen.

…

"Bridget!"

It wasn't that hearing her name aloud was so startling, but who was saying it was quite a surprise: Wallaker. He had never addressed her by her given name, ever, which, given Bridget's startled expression, had not gone unnoticed by her, either.

"Haven't you forgotten something?"

She said nothing.

And then she saw Billy, who was smirking in much the same way his teacher was.

Of course, she never would have really forgotten Billy, but after the morning she'd had—dissecting Roxster's annoyed look the night before, the unkind 'toy boy' article he'd clearly been reading, the inadvertent email forward suggesting she be sacked from her own project as screenwriter, Mabel's infected finger, and the form for Billy's bassoon lesson getting mixed up with the sexually transmitted disease pamphlets that Mabel insisted on keeping and reading—it was totally understandable that she _almost_ had.

"She even forgets to get up sometimes," said Billy, a bit traitorously to his mother (Mark thought).

"I bet."

"Come along, children!" Bridget snapped, lifting her chin high.

"Yeth, Mother," said Mabel with an almost sarcastic obedience.

"Thank you, Daughter," she said coolly. "Hurry along! Goodbye, Mr Wallaker."

As she retreated with both of the children, Mark saw Wallaker smile. It was subtle and was gone in the blink of an eye, but it was a smile that said a lot: Wallaker was smitten, whether he wanted to admit it or not.

…

The calm before the storm.

The minibreak in Oxfordshire with Roxster helped to put some worries to rest for Bridget; Mark knew that she had been fretting about Roxster breaking up with her. Mark didn't spend a lot of time out there, but did notice that when she saw the words 'Bridal Suite' on a sign on the little cottage they had reserved, she quickly took control of her features; surely she was thinking of their own honeymoon. But any sadness she felt was quickly wiped away by Roxster's playfulness in carrying her over the threshold.

A similar look passed over her face when she saw the moon shining above, but she brushed it aside, and soon after Roxster had her smiling again.

Roxster was good at making her smile, Mark granted him that, but he also knew that this ability alone was nothing upon which to hang a lifelong partnership.

…

_Daddy. Heaven. Space._

The mere mention of Father's Day by Billy was enough to made Bridget need to pull the car to the side of the road so that she could recover her composure. The children had both made cards for him at school that day, cards that touched him deeply; his children, who had barely known him, still missed and loved him. It was Bridget who kept that love for him alive.

They insisted upon posting the letters, and the address with which Mabel addressed her card was as good an address as any. But before they did that, Bridget pulled out the photos of them with their father. One in particular caught his attention. To see his little boy affecting the same pose, the same expression as he used to do, was both cheering and depressing all at once.

"Mummy," asked Billy as he studied that very photo, "do you think he can see us?"

"I'm sure of it," Bridget said without hesitation.

"Can he see when I steal the marmalade for the Hellvanians?"

Bridget stifled a laugh. "Even that, yes."

Mabel looked distraught, said in a tiny but sepulchral voice, "Ohhh."

Bridget couldn't stifle a chuckle. She pulled Mabel close, then planted a kiss on the top of her head. Mark wished he could do the same; she was really too adorable for words. "I am also equally sure," Bridget said in an emotional tone, "that he loves us, even still." She sniffed, releasing Mabel gently, squaring her shoulders. "Come on. Let's put these in the post, so he can get them in time."

"Okay!" said Mabel, the marmalade confession seemingly forgotten.

They walked in an almost reverential silence to post the cards, and after dropping the letters in, they began the short walk home. Billy was the first to speak. "I wish we lived in a normal family, like Rebecca." Mark conjured up the visual image of the eccentric neighbour and her boys.

"That's not a normal family," Bridget said. "They never—"

But it was already off of Billy's mind. "Finn has Xbox in the week!"

"Can we have _SpongeBob_ now?"

"After your baths," Bridget said as she let them back into the house. "Come on. Upstairs."

Mark couldn't help thinking that Billy was sorely mistaken if he thought he'd have more Xbox privileges with Mark around than he had now.

…

Mark's spectre, so to speak, was a portent of things to come that very night. It might have been inevitable, Mark knew it, but it didn't make him feel any better about it.

"I really need to meet someone my own age, and I can't do that unless I'm able to do that."

That was the core of what Roxster had to say, and Bridget… she seemed to be taking it suspiciously well. A smile, cheerfulness, happily showing him to the door.

Mark should have known better. Should have known she'd put on a false front until she was alone. The moment the door closed, she crumbled. Cried herself to sleep. He tried to assure her that better things were just around the corner, for all the good it did. She would just have to wait and see for herself.

…

The look Wallaker gave his wife—rather, ex-wife—was transparent: Sarah was dressed inappropriately for the children's Sports Day. An oddly open-weave dress—almost like macramé, or crochet—and gold gladiator-style heels was the outfit she'd chosen, and Wallaker looked like he wanted to comment, but didn't.

Probably because it was too late to change.

Probably because it would make no difference, and do nothing but cause strife.

"Glad you could make it," he said resignedly.

"If you're going to continue to teach sports," she said with obvious distaste, "I suppose I must accept it and support you."

"Too kind," he said wryly, then looked off to the side. "The mums will be putting together a picnic over there."

"I'm not going to sit around and chat about children," Sarah said.

Wallaker exhaled sharply. "I should go make sure everything's in order. People are starting to arrive already."

"All right."

With that Wallaker was off, leaving Sarah standing on her own; Sarah wasted no time slipping a flask out of her handbag for a surreptitious sip.

Bridget was not too early nor too late; she looked a tiny bit rough and made her way to where the mums had set up the picnic to set her cut green and red peppers down. She then laid her own blanket down, and wasted no time in pulling out her phone to send a text, then paused to pour drinks for the other mums from what was undoubtedly a contraband bottle of Pimm's, and a giant one at that.

With some bemusement, Mark watched Wallaker approaching Bridget, just as Wallaker was watching Bridget relentlessly text on her phone. He then steeled his features.

"Enjoying supporting the sporting activities?" he asked, startling her.

She began to rise from her kneeling position, but lost her balance and wound up on her hands too, just as a starter pistol went off to signify the first race, the egg and spoon race, had begun.

At the crack of that pistol, Wallaker froze, reaching for a gun that obviously was not there. The military training peeking through in response to that familiar sound… and then he blinked, looking a bit embarrassed for having such a reaction.

"Everything all right?" Bridget asked, still down on her hands and knees, affecting a very Wallaker-like expression, much to Mark's amusement.

"Absolutely. Just a slight issue I have with… spoons." He then turned and left.

Mark guessed, then, that his military past was not something about which he spoke freely.

Bridget stowed the phone, then gathered up Mabel to go and watch Billy's event, the long jump. They measured Billy's jump, and a cheer went around. Billy had beaten all the others, and he bounced up into the air. Mabel looked smug. "I told you, dammit!"

Mark had to laugh at Mabel's curse.

"What?" asked Bridget.

Mabel pointed to where they were measuring the first boy's distance jumped. "Dey do have tape measuring in the Kwintoflon."

Mark thought back to an earlier discussion about the pentathlon—with some disagreement about whether it was actually called a "Quintathlon"—and to Mabel's insistence that tape measuring was one of the events. He wanted to hug her tightly to him. She had, after all, been correct.

"Yes, it is an increasingly popular athletic category."

It was Wallaker again, looking somewhat distracted, this time accompanied by Sarah. It did not go unnoticed by Mark that Wallaker kept seeking Bridget out, even with Sarah there. Bridget was gawping at Sarah while trying not to gawp.

"Could I possibly have a drop of that Pimm's?" Sarah asked, then turned to Wallaker. "Pimm's? Dear?"

Bridget looked even more shocked; her astonishment at the identity of Wallaker's ex-wife was plain to see.

Wallaker snapped from his reverie. Even Mark could see his obvious discomfort. "Bridget, this is… this is Sarah. Don't worry, I'll do the Pimm's, you go to Billy."

Bridget gathered Mabel up just as Billy came galloping over; she took him in her arms, hugged him, told him what a great job he'd done. "Your dad would be so very proud," she whispered with a big smile.

Billy grinned in return. "I know."

Bridget hadn't seen Wallaker watching this exchange, but Mark had; Wallaker smiled upon them with fondness.

The rest of the event went smoothly, and before Mark knew it, Bridget and the children were packing up their things to leave. As they did, Sarah stumbled up to Bridget again, asking for more Pimm's, which Bridget provided with a sly grin.

"Thanks you," slurred Sarah, her eyes wide with a sort of surprise, scrutinise Bridget's features. "Not often I meet someone your age who's still got a real face."

At this Bridget seemed stunned, and said nothing even as she wandered to the prize-giving. Mark knew all too well that Bridget was obsessing about the comment about her face. How Mark wanted to reassure her that her 'real face' was a million times more attractive than a stretched-like-a-drum one. How he was sure Wallaker was thinking the same.

If only Bridget could have been privy to the next conversation Wallaker had with Sarah, when Wallaker told his too-drunk-to-drive ex-wife that the reconciliation was off, Bridget would have been cheered.

"Why?" Sarah asked, slumped up against the car window as he drove her home.

At the traffic light, he only looked over to her with a disgusted expression. "If I have to explain why, then there really is no hope at all, Sarah."

The reason for breaking off the reconciliation was very clear to Mark.

…

Naturally the shiny new stopwatch and whistle that Wallaker wore the next week at school caught Billy's attention; he was, after all, fairly clever and observant, and that was not just fatherly pride on Mark's part.

"Mr Wallaker," asked Billy, "did you get that as a present?"

"Get…"

"The new whistle and that," he said, pointing to the stopwatch.

"Ah, yes," Wallaker said with a smile. "My boys sent these to me for Father's Day."

"Oh," said Billy. "Did you get to see them?"

Wallaker shook his head. "They're away at school, so… I had to settle for a phone call from them until the term's over."

"Oh." Billy looked thoughtful. "We made Father's Day cards in class, Mabel and me."

Wallaker looked distinctly uncomfortable, and seemed to proceed with caution in asking, "Did you… show them to your mum?"

"Yes," said Billy. "We put them in the post for Daddy. Mummy brought out the photos of us with Daddy. She said he can still see us and he misses us and loves us." He smiled. "I like the photo best where we are wearing the same suits and everything. Mummy tells me all the time how much I look like him." Billy beamed proudly.

Wallaker's smile was almost wistful. "I'm sure that makes your mum very…" He paused. "Proud."

Mark knew what he was really thinking.


	4. Chapter 4

**The Owl**

By S. Faith, © 2014

Words: 24,800 in 4 chapters  
><span>Rating<span>: T / PG-13  
><span>Summary, Disclaimer, Notes<span>: See Chapter 1.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 4<strong>

_Midsummer_

After meeting the pissed, face-lifted Sarah, Bridget decided to try Botox, which hadn't gone exactly well; a reaction caused her lips to swell up. In arriving on the school run to pick up Billy, Wallaker had noticed the swelling, had used his authoritative voice and manner to commandeer Billy to his mother. She'd tried to cover it up and say it was a dental issue, but despite telling the children to behave because she was feeling poorly, Wallaker wasn't fooled.

"Mrs Darcy?" he said to her.

"Yes, Mr Wallaker?"

He fixed her with an intense gaze. "I wouldn't do that again if I were you. You looked all right in the first place."

It was the first admission Mark had had ever heard from Wallaker that he found Bridget attractive… just as she was.

…

_Oh, Daniel. You old fool._

In his preoccupation with Bridget and the children—which was totally understandable—Mark completely missed what was happening with his old friend. What alerted him was the fact that Daniel hadn't called her back, and he had been pretty reliable since Mark and he had reconciled.

But the signs had all been there, and the fact was he'd drunk the contents of his entire liquor cabinet as well as a bottle of Fairy Liquid, the sum total of which landed him in hospital.

Mark knew that Bridget's appearance would bring out the carefree mask Daniel loved so much to wear, so he went directly there as soon as he knew where Daniel was. It was just as Mark suspected: Daniel, in generic hospital winceyette pyjamas, was unshaven, with wild, unkempt hair in total disarray, and sporting a black eye. Clearly, though, Daniel was unhappy. He sat on his bed in a locked ward of St Catherine's, staring into the distance at nothing at all. He had with him a coat and a bag filled with a few personal things, but that was all.

Suddenly, Daniel stirred, came back to the present. He stood, ran his fingers through his hair, and sauntered away towards the shared toilet facilities.

Within a few minutes, Bridget came into the ward with newspapers and a card in hand. Her gaze connected with the coat and the bag—both of which were familiar with her—but the empty bed caused her to furrow her brow. She set the papers and the card down on the table, and began to tidy the bed sheets, the other items on the night stand.

"Who are you?"

She recognised Daniel, that much was obvious, but his state was clearly upsetting to her. "It's me, Bridget!"

"Jones!" he said brightly, then stumbled to sit on the bed. "You could at least have told me you were coming. Might have cleaned up a bit." Then he lay down, closing his eyes.

"Silly arse."

He reached to clasp her hand, wheezing a bit.

"What happened? Why can't you breathe?"

Daniel explained how he'd drunk the Fairy Liquid, which caused them to both start laughing… and then, bubbles began to form on his mouth.

_Oh God_, thought Mark, feeling sympathetic, and feeling guilty for being amused at his friend being turned into a bubble machine… because the children would have loved it.

The nurse came over to help Daniel, then, after reading Bridget's card—"Dirty bastard… wherever you go and whatever you do, I'll always love you"—looked like Daniel might tear up, but then he put the card down again.

Mark believed it to be true… and he knew Daniel did, too.

…

As the Summer Concert approached, Bridget was looking especially pensive, the way she often did when school events were on the horizon. He knew her well enough to know she was caught up in thought bogs about him.

_Believe me_, darling, he thought. _I think about you, too._

The night before the Summer Concert on the fourth of July (the mention of it stuck with him because of the American holiday), Billy too seemed to have his father on his mind, wondering to his mother if Mark knew he'd be doing the show, worrying whether he'd do all right. She assured him in all possible ways, then gazed pensively out into the moonlight, undoubtedly imagining what the day would be like if Mark were there. Overly smooth, overly perfect, no doubt. She did tend to romanticise things a little.

The concert was being held a little ways out of London at Wallaker's home, or his family home, anyway; Capthorpe House, which was beautifully situated and picture perfect. They took the wrong junction and ended up arriving a little late, toting half the contents of the kitchen for herself and Billy, something that did not escape Wallaker's notice as they arrived… nor did the transparency of her dress in the sunlight, which he had the good sense to mention only after Billy had gone off with friends.

Bridget was only embarrassed by the mention… and did not at all recognise the compliment he'd offered in commenting, "Good effect."

Mark was thankful Bridget did not sit alone, and therefore left to more thought bogs, amongst pairs of parents; she sat with the mum she liked best from school and had a lovely time. When it came time for Billy to play, accompanied by Wallaker on the piano, Bridget sat there with tears welling in her eyes; Mark felt equally proud of his son. And at the conclusion, through the applause, Wallaker leaned to Billy and whispered, "Your mum is so proud of you." Then Wallaker glanced towards Bridget as Billy beamed with pride.

At the end of the concert, Billy made a bee-line running straight over to Bridget, and they shared a great big tight hug before he broke away to go off with his little group of friends. This, just as the parents began to peel away into pairs to take a walk on a night that was becoming dangerously romantic after sunset, as the moon rose. Mark could see Bridget falling into despair, left behind and alone with not even a drink for consolation.

Mark saw Wallaker watching her with concern as she sat alone on her rug, then rose, Diet Coke in hand, to wander off towards the bushes. She had tears in her eyes; Mark suspected she did not want anyone to see her crying. Wallaker was just as observant, but seemed hesitant to follow her.

"Go," said Mark. "Go see to her."

Wallaker took in a breath then wandered after her, and Mark saw what Wallaker saw: Bridget, tears glistening on her face, looking sad and forlorn… even a little scared.

Wallaker spoke. "You can't even get plastered, can you?"

She turned to face him.

"You all right?" he asked.

"Yes!" she blurted, wiping her tears away. "Why do you keep _bursting_ up on me? Why do you keep asking me if I'm all right?"

"I know when a woman is foundering and pretending not to be," Wallaker said, taking a step closer. Bridget drew in a breath. Wallaker touched her hair, made a feeble joke about nits, leaned in, pressed his lips to her cheek…

_Perfect_, thought Mark. It was all a downhill coast from here.

However, just as she seemed to fall in thrall to the moment, she pulled back… and she looked furious.

"What are you _doing_? Just because I'm on my own, it doesn't mean I'm… I'm _desperate_ and _fair game_," she hissed. "You're _married_! 'Oh, oh, I'm Mr Wallaker. I'm all married and perfect'…" _But Bridget, he's not married_, thought Mark. _Come on, Wallaker, tell her you're free, for God's sake!_ "…and what do you mean, '_foundering_'? And I know I'm a rubbish mother and single but you don't have to rub my nose in it and—"

Her diatribe was interrupted by a child's voice:

"Billy! Your mummy's kissing Mr Wallaker!"

Suddenly they were surrounded by children and Nicolette making demands for Wallaker to make a speech or to do a final little performance; but once he refused, once the dust settled, Bridget was alone with Wallaker again. "Right," he said. "You've made yourself very clear. I apologise." He excused himself to go back to where the concert had been held, then began walking away, turning back only to add, "But just for the record, other people's lives are not always as perfect as they appear, once you crack the shell."

This parting shot left Bridget reeling, or at least, stunned her out of her own grief wallow to gather up Billy and get him safely home. And Wallaker, once the masses had gone and the equipment stored away, seemed to be, to use his own word, foundering.

…

Wallaker took the rejection so hard that he barely spoke to Bridget in the days and weeks to follow, and seeing her on Hampstead Heath with Roxster in mid-July did not help matters; he couldn't have known that the embrace between Bridget and Roxster was a sort of final goodbye, and not the engagement it appeared to be. Mark couldn't have guessed, not until now, that Wallaker was beyond smitten; he was quite possibly in love with her.

Mark was pleased to see, though, that what had happened hadn't really affected Wallaker's relationship with Billy, though Billy did ask some uncomfortable questions of the man. Billy wasn't thick; surely he'd noticed that Wallaker had paid closer attention to his own mum than to the others.

"Mr Wallaker," Billy had asked the Monday after the concert, when they were alone, before Bridget turned up to get him, "how exactly was Mummy hurt?"

Wallaker tried to pretend he hadn't quite understood. "What do you mean?"

"At the concert," Billy went on, "when you were in the bushes with Mummy. How was she hurt? _Was_ it her mouth?"

Wallaker looked down to Billy, his earnest eyes and expression. He looked around to see if Bridget's vehicle was approaching, then crouched down so that they were face to face. "Can I let you in on a little secret, between we men?"

Billy nodded, clearly pleased to be taken into such a confidence.

"Your mum's hurt was less about an injury to her… mouth," he began, "and more about… hurting inside." Wallaker patted his own chest, just over his heart. "Do you know what I mean?"

Billy furrowed his brow. "Like a stomach ache?"

Wallaker chuckled. "No," he said. "She was sad, because she missed your dad and wished he could be there with you."

Billy nodded. "We talked about him last night."

"So you understand, I think. She didn't want you to see her upset like that and take away from your wonderful performance. So I was just… trying to be a friend. You know how… sometimes you hug your friends."

Billy nodded.

"I'm afraid that your mum might not have wanted that," he said; when he spotted Bridget's vehicle coming down the road, he rose to his full height. "So I don't want to bring it up again, and I would appreciate it you wouldn't either."

Billy looked very serious. "No, sir, I won't. But… Jeremiah said she kissed you."

"Jeremiah was wrong," said Wallaker, which wasn't a lie. Jeremiah _was_ wrong; Wallaker had been the one to initiate the kiss, as chaste as it had been.

…

The term was over, and summer started full bore; while Bridget and the children spent time in Paxos and Devon, arranging play dates with all manner of friends and spending time with her mother after an epiphany and reconciliation of sorts, Wallaker took his own boys on holiday for a bit, a camping trip in the country.

The first day or so of the trip was spent in awkward silence—it became very clear that he did not even know his own children well enough to converse with them. In fact, it apparently was the longest stretch they had spent alone together at one time in years.

"The whistle and the stopwatch," Wallaker said abruptly over the camp stove as he cooked eggs for breakfast, remembering the Father's Day gifts. "I mean, I know I already thanked you, but… I really do like them."

"Oh," said Matt. He smiled. "I'm glad."

Fred smiled too. "It was my idea, after Mum said you were teaching sports. We saved our pocket money."

Wallaker found himself smiling, too. "Well, I've gotten very nice comments on them," he said, undoubtedly thinking of Billy's remarks.

"Do you like… do you like teaching sports?" Matt asked.

"Yes, a lot," he said.

"What about music? Do you get to play?" Fred asked.

"Not very frequently," said Wallaker. Mark thought of the concert. He turned to look at where the boys sat at the table. "And you?" he asked. "Do you ever get to play?"

They looked sheepish. "No," they admitted. "We don't do music lessons at school."

"No?" Wallaker asked, clearly surprised. "Because they don't offer it?"

After another exchanged glance, Matt spoke for the two of them. "Because Mum said it wasn't necessary for us to take music and that we should take other subjects because she didn't want us poor and living on the streets."

"She said it was beneath us," added Fred.

"Oh," Wallaker said. Mark could see the restraint, the tension in his jaw as he didn't say the things he wanted to say about Sarah's opinion. "Well. There's more to life than only learning skills that'll make you money. We'll have to make some adjustments to your term; that is, if you want to do music again."

The boys both smiled very broadly. "Yeah."

The ice thus broken, the boys and their father conversed on many other subjects for the balance of the holiday, though there were unguarded moments when Wallaker seemed contemplative, even sad.

"Dad?"

Wallaker was packing the tents when Matt approached. He looked up, squinting into the sunlight. "Yes, son?"

Matt said nothing, so Wallaker prompted him again as he continued his work.

"Dad, I was just wondering, have you got a girlfriend now?"

He looked up to Matt again from where he was knelt on the grass. "What makes you ask that?"

"Just wondering," said Matt with a little grin.

Wallaker rose, looking with curiosity at his son. "No, Matt," said Wallaker at last. "I haven't a girlfriend."

"Aw," said Matt. "Too bad. I wish you did."

"Get your brother and then get your stuff in the car," said Wallaker. As Matt wandered away, Wallaker muttered under his breath, "Yeah, I wish I did too."

Mark felt Wallaker's frustration and annoyance acutely, and thought, _How dare she so stubbornly resist the man I'm pushing at her so insistently!_ Then again, this was Bridget, whose track record for such clues were not so great; this thought made Mark smile, at least.

…

Help in Mark's endeavours came from an unlikely source: Rebecca, Bridget's bohemian neighbour, who returned from touring with her… husband? Boyfriend? Mark wasn't sure. Rebecca, however, confirmed for Mark what he thought he already knew—military service with the SAS before returning to civilian life as a teacher—and gave Bridget all of the details he'd wished he'd been able to give, like the fact that he was no longer married, and hadn't been for years.

After this, in a case of history repeating itself, Bridget apparently decided she liked Wallaker just as it seemed he had lost interest. Mark, though, knew better. Wallaker himself had been the one to surreptitiously spread the word (through Valerie, the school secretary) that he wasn't married, if for no other reason than to redeem himself for the Summer Concert kiss. Even if it meant he had to put up with an onslaught of advances from the other mums, which he invariably did.

However, Wallaker kept his distance, and now that Bridget realised that his kindness and attentiveness had been genuine, that he hadn't only been kind for the sake of being kind or, worse still, to make her feel like a bad mum, she was in something of a funk herself.

When Billy made the choir, Wallaker offered congratulations to him as he stood there with his mum; it was the most they'd spoken to each other, even indirectly, since the summer concert. It was clear to Mark that he wanted to say a lot more to her. As he turned away, she started to speak, and it was then that Mark could see the annoyance all over his face for not staying to hear what it was she might have said.

…

Bonfire Night would prove to rekindle sparks again, even though it came not in the form of an actual Bonfire Night party, but rather, an ordinary parents' night at the school. Though Wallaker started the evening with a rather cool demeanour towards Bridget, eventually he warmed up to her despite himself, and they ended up bonding a bit over Billy's (understandable) fit of giggles over 'Uranus'.

The most significant aspect of the evening revealed itself after Billy's meeting. Mark wasn't sure Bridget picked up on the real importance of what she overheard Wallaker saying to Nicolette about her son, Atticus, though her expression indicated that she at least realised that his stance had softened since they'd first met. Mark had sure noticed, though.

Wallaker had basically come around to Bridget's way of thinking, and in fact used some of the same words she'd used in the defence of children. Children should be treated like children, not like corporate products; they needed to have fun, needed to learn how to deal with problem resolution, not worry about class rankings or be barraged with a constant stream of praise and ego-stroking.

Mark thought it'd be just a matter of time before he was pulling his boys out of boarding school, all thanks to her.

…

Miranda.

What a comedy of errors.

Mark wished he could tell Bridget that Miranda was a relative, because he knew Bridget well enough to know that she believed that any man would choose a twenty-something stick insect (to use her parlance) instead… which he knew to be foolish. The hairdresser making a joke in front of Wallaker about a no-grey Christmas—the first visit for a roots touch up in weeks—surely did not help matters. For all her youth and attractiveness, Mark thought Miranda did not compare in any significant way to Bridget. Though he probably wasn't the most unbiased man on the subject.

Mark noticed something very subtle, though, when Bridget admitted that she knew he had been an SAS officer. Wallaker was clearly still deeply affected by what he'd seen while serving, and in reflex, it seemed, he had closed ranks in on himself at the mere mention that she was aware of this aspect of his past. More than ever, it seemed that Wallaker needed what Bridget could offer, to help him to heal from his traumatic past, just as much as Bridget needed Wallaker to help her move on.

If there were only something more Mark could do to push the two of them together. It was such an obvious pairing to him, to school mum Farzia, to the school secretary Valerie—why did they not see it themselves?

…

Without a doubt, Bridget had made incredible progress since Mark had been watching over her. She had gone from a mere shadow of a person, existing only to go through the motions for the sake of the children, to a fully engaged mother who was working diligently on a second screenplay—the first of which was being filmed, though without her involvement any longer, but still impressive given it was her first—and who was trying to find someone with whom she could find happiness. Bridget had even, in her usual tender-heartedness, comforted and befriended the A-Type power mum/family CEO, Nicolette, during a moment of crisis.

Overall, Mark was pleased. The only thing that left him unsatisfied was that despite these successes, Bridget still missed Mark desperately, and still felt lonely.

…

Without the benefit of the foreknowledge Mark seemed to possess of the situation—from where he got this foresight that no adult or child was in danger that day, he did not know—Bridget must have felt helpless watching the moron in the BMW back his vehicle into the pole at East Finchley, then terrified when she couldn't find Billy. The pole was the first domino to fall, taking the fence with it, landing with a crash as the car continued to move backwards into the sunken sports pit.

Mark tried to soothe Billy and his friends as Wallaker then Bridget herself bravely descended into the pit. From all appearances the car was about to fall onto them, but Mark was not worried; he liked to think that even if he'd been a mortal man without that special foresight, he wouldn't have panicked, because Wallaker took charge of the situation as if it were a military drill. He even held up the teetering end of the car while barking up to the teachers and parents to sit on the bonnet and directing the boys to ease away from the car then get out from behind the fence.

The sight of Bridget pulling Billy out, then of the firemen pulling them out in turn, made Mark so proud; Bridget was the only one of the mums who had gone into the pit. And Billy, in turn, was so proud of having saved his sister (even though Mabel had not been near the pit, and had never been in any danger, as she was with Nicolette the entire time). He proclaimed himself a superhero.

Bridget was as strong as steel while the children went to get checked out at hospital, and it was only afterwards, back at the house, with the children engrossed in the telly and everything back to normality, that she finally broke into tears. Mark was very grateful that Wallaker was still there—after driving her, Billy, and Mabel home—to console her as Mark wished he could. Enfolding her in his arms, whispering words of comfort, and words of reassurance to bolster her confidence as a single parent, words that echoed what Mark himself was thinking.

After the event they seemed to have reached a détente—at least, they were more openly friendly towards one another. Mark could tell each wanted more, but were under the misapprehension that the other was involved with someone else.

…

Christmas was a magical time of year, but also deeply emotional, to the point of traumatic, for a woman who had lost her husband under terrible circumstances, and her father so soon before that. Mark was not at all surprised, then, when, in the church at Billy's Christmas carol concert, tears filled her eyes and flooded down her cheeks during the singing. He knew exactly why she was sad; he knew she was thinking of all of the Christmases Past, ones that made her heart ache. Mabel took her hand, said, "Don't cry, Mummy, pleathe don't cry." Bridget wiped her cheeks off lest Billy see her sobbing, and then she raised her voice along with the rest of the congregation.

Wallaker was no longer singing, but looking straight at her, though she didn't notice at first. Wallaker watched her in that moment as it represented her life to him—setting aside pain and heartache to be strong for her children—and when she did finally meet his gaze, she stopped singing, too: the smile he offered to her was understanding and kind, communicating so much in such a simple expression, in so little a span of time.

_This is it_, thought Mark. He did not have any particular special foresight as he had with the incident with Billy in the schoolyard, but he intuited that this look across the church signalled a change in the direction of their relationship. The right direction.

After the concert, the snow fell in beautiful, fluffy flakes. There was a fire in the brazier in the courtyard, and mulled wine, hot cocoa and roasted chestnuts for the offer. Wallaker brought over refreshments for Bridget, Mabel, Billy (who had not yet even appeared to join them), and himself.

"May I pour some more of this down your coat?" Wallaker joked, referring to the hot cocoa that Mabel had accidentally spilt down Bridget's new white coat earlier that evening, which Bridget, in her usual nonchalance about accidents, had dismissed as not worth getting upset about. Bridget hadn't responded; Wallaker took her silence as accepting of the drinks, and set the tray down in order to offer a cocoa to Mabel. "This is for you, Mabel."

She shook her head, even though she clearly wanted the drink. "I spilt it before, on Mummy's coat, you see."

"Now Mabel," he said with solemnity, "if she had a white coat on, _without_ chocolate, would she really be Mummy?"

Mabel's eyes were huge as she shook her head again, accepting the drink… before surprising Mark (and, clearly, Bridget as well): she set the drink down then threw her arms around him for a big hug, giving him a kiss, getting chocolate on Wallaker's shirt.

Wallaker was not unaffected by the surprise embrace and show of affection, but worked hard to try not to show it. "There you go," Wallaker said with due seriousness, then added jokingly, "Why don't you tip a little bit more on Mummy's coat, just for Christmas?"

"Mummy! Mummy! Did you see me?" This came from an exuberant Billy, racing up with pink cheeks and a broad smile.

Mabel sang at his appearance: "'Tis de season to hate Billy!"

"Mabel," said Wallaker, "stop it." Amazingly, she did. Wallaker continued, "Of course she saw you, Billy; she was waving at you, as she was specifically instructed not to." He handed Billy his chocolate, told him he'd done great, putting his hand reassuringly on Billy's shoulder.

Billy was on cloud nine, with as broad a grin as Mark had ever seen, his eyes shining with pride; Wallaker and Bridget shared a glance, undoubtedly thinking of the incident at East Finchley before Billy interrupted by asking (in a disapproving tone) about the state of the coat. Then, at seeing his friend, he asked for his bag, and Mabel did too.

At Wallaker's confused expression, it turned out that the children were going to sleepovers with friends. "Well, that sounds like fun," he said, then glanced to Bridget. "And is Mummy having a sleepover, too?"

Mabel told him no. "She'th all on her own."

Billy added, rather unkindly, "As usual."

"Interesting," murmured Wallaker.

Spoiling the moment was the school secretary, who to find Wallaker about a bassoon, which turned out to be Billy's.

"I'll go and get it," said Bridget.

"I'll get it," countered Wallaker kindly. "Back in a mo."

"No!" said Bridget. "It's okay! I'll—"

She stopped talking when Wallaker placed his hand on her arm. "I'll get it."

With that, he went off for the bassoon, and Bridget took the children and their knapsacks to their respective friends' parents for the sleepovers, then waited for Wallaker. She looked increasingly despondent, or doubtful that he planned to return, pacing back and forth as she sipped her mulled wine, finally finishing it and tossing the cup away, spraying her coat with the dregs of the red wine as she did. With this final indignity delivered upon her, she apparently made up her mind that Wallaker wasn't coming back, turned on her heel, and headed in the same direction the remaining attendees had gone.

Mark was disappointed that Wallaker had apparently stood her up, and frustrated that there was nothing he could do. He was just about to go looking to satisfy his own curiosity when—

"Hang on!"

Everyone in the vicinity turned to look. With the bassoon in tow, Wallaker came striding up, explaining that he was taking her carol singing, satisfying the outsiders' curiosity. To her, he said quietly, "Shall we hit the pub?"

Mark could sense a change almost immediately; not specifically by what they said, but the body language spoke volumes. And finally, it was Wallaker who broached the subject of what he thought was Bridget's much younger fiancé (who wasn't), and Bridget countered regarding Wallaker's much younger girlfriend (who wasn't)… and they hashed out all of the misunderstandings, which made Mark proud of her. In the past, she might have never spoke up at all.

Mark knew all would be well when Wallaker leaned in and said, "…you can't go out with someone else, can you? When you're in lo—"

It didn't take a genius to realise what he had been about to say when he was interrupted by another school mum, and Bridget obviously understood. To reiterate his feelings, though, Wallaker asked, "If I take you home will you dance to 'Killer Queen'?"

As they departed the pub together, Mark distinctly heard the school secretary say with a twinkle in her eye, "Have a good night, you two." Mark also noticed that Bridget had forgotten about the bassoon once again. He had faith, somehow, that it would be fetched. He couldn't imagine Wallaker letting the detail about one of her children slip his mind, despite the promise of the evening ahead.

To Mark's surprise it was Bridget who remembered, and after Wallaker returned with it… well, after the mistletoe, after caressing her cheek, after taking her in his arms and kissing her, Mark saw little point in remaining.

She did not return to the house for the whole of the night. The house was very empty and far too quiet, though Mark expected it might not be that way for long.

…

"Billy?"

"Yeah?" They were both set on the ground; Mabel had Saliva, her dolly, and nearby, Billy was playing his video games on a hand-held console.

"I wonder if dis is what it's like havin' a daddy all the time."

Billy put the game down and looked at his sister. Billy, who seemed in so many ways to Mark as so much more a young man than the little boy of seven that he was, had obviously enjoyed having Wallaker at dinner with them that evening. "Yeah, probably."

"I like it," Mabel declared, then screwed up her face. "He's not really Daddy but it's okay if he is sorta like a daddy, isn't it?"

Billy didn't say anything, his expression difficult to read; Mark knew why this was. Loyalty to a father he could probably now only barely remember.

Just then there was a light rap on the frame of the open bedroom door. It was Wallaker; he had overheard this little conversation between them, and it had affected him, judging by the soft, almost emotional expression playing on his features. Both children turned to face him. "Hi Mr Wolkda," said Mabel brightly.

"Just wanted to come and say goodnight before your mummy comes in to put you to bed."

"Goodnight," said Mabel.

Billy studied Wallaker. "Don't you mean goodbye?"

Billy was perceptive. Mark knew it, and so did Wallaker.

"Well…" said Wallaker. "I was hoping to talk to you about that. Both of you." He sat down on the floor between the two of them. "You know I like you both a lot, and I like your mummy a lot, too."

With huge, luminous eyes, Mabel nodded. "We like you too."

Hesitantly, Billy nodded as well.

"I'm happy to hear that, Mabel," he said with a smile. "I heard a little of what you said… and I just wanted you both to know that I would like to be there for you, help you, support you like a daddy would, but I would never want to take the place of your daddy. I would never ask you to forget him, and you never should." He paused, meeting Billy's gaze. "I know that you might be feeling bad about liking me, because maybe you feel like that means you love your daddy less, but… you know, me liking the two of you doesn't mean I love my own boys any less. Does that make sense?"

Mabel's mouth formed a big O. "You're a _daddy_?"

Billy allowed a little smile; he had already seen the father's day gifts. He already knew.

"Yes, Mabel, I am," Wallaker said gently.

"Where do you keep the kidth?"

Wallaker grinned, though looked a bit chagrined. "They're at school."

She looked horrified. "Do they thleep in your clathroom?"

He tried not to laugh. "A different school, the sort of school that kids sleep at."

"Oh, I don't like that at all," Mabel said sourly.

"I am starting to agree," said Wallaker. "So. I hope you understand there isn't any reason to feel bad about liking me. Does that make sense?"

"Yeah," said Billy. "I think so."

"Good," said Wallaker, shifting in order to get to his feet again. "Right. Well. I'd better—"

He stopped when Mabel leapt to her feet to put her arms around his neck again, and smacked a loud kiss on his cheek. "Night night, Mr Wolkda," she said.

He gave her a hug in return, smiling. "We're gonna have to work on that," he said quietly. "Night night, Mabel."

"Night night, Mr Wallaker." This was from Billy, who stood there with his hands out, offering a hug, too. Wallaker accepted it gladly.

With that Wallaker left the room; Billy and Mabel looked to each other, and both smiled. "He's cool," said Billy.

"Yeah," she said, beaming a smile.

With that, Bridget appeared; if she wondered why they were so compliant in getting into their pyjamas, she didn't say a word. She tucked Billy into bed first.

Mabel said, "De moon is thtill followin' us."

At the sound of her words was when Mark felt a tug as if to the centre of his very being. Mabel was at the window, looking at the moon; one moment Mark was beside her looking out, and the next, he was gazing down upon her from the outside, looking in on them under the guise of the owl.

Bridget's future looked happy and bright, and Mark was secure that his memory would live on in her heart, and in his children's. Mark knew, however, it was time to move on. He could feel the pull get even stronger. Even though he knew they would see each other again, he resisted as long as he could, clinging to the owl with all his strength, not wanting to break the connection with Bridget's gaze. He knew, though, that it was only a matter of minutes, perhaps seconds, before his grip on the mortal world would break.

The owl's wings spread wide, though he was not sure he had done it or the owl had. All Mark could see was Bridget, her curious face filled with a sort of recognition, like a shining beacon in the moonlight. The owl raised up, wings pulsing in the cold December air, moving farther and farther away; he focused on her face even when the owl had quickly been left far below, until he could no longer see her at all.

It was time for a new beginning.

_The end._


End file.
